


Residuum

by velero



Series: Residuum [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, First Time, M/M, POV Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:45:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velero/pseuds/velero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' life transforms when he chooses between his father and his supernatural friends. Then Derek returns to Beacon Hills and it transforms again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Residuum

**Author's Note:**

> The story includes Season 3A characters and references some of the events, but not everything as occurred in canon. Most crucially, Sheriff Stilinski doesn't know about the supernatural world when the story begins.

He was running through darkness as impenetrable as the web of tree branches catching at his shirt and his hair, as the bushes entangling his feet and making his every other step a stagger, a trip. His heart was beating in concert with his zipping thoughts, a fucking Roadrunner on speed.

Focus, _focus_ : but he had no idea why he was running, or where, except that something evil would catch him if he slowed down, even for a breath. He couldn't slow and he absolutely must not stop. Just run and run and keep running as the ache in his thighs became agony and what had started as a stitch in his side became more like an ax chipping into his gut.

If only he could see: where he was going, what was behind him, in front, around. Wasn't there always supposed to be a moon when evil things tried to catch him? Something was off about this silent race through the forest on a night dark as sin. Nothing fit the world as he'd come to know it, where certain things should be dependable: And one of those things was that he should at least know what he was running from, should be able to hear or see or even smell the thing out to get him, not just feel a miasma of evil that would grab him if he stopped for even a moment.

Not right that he was alone, either. He patted at his pocket, felt the reassuring bulge with a surge of relief, and managed to pull out his phone. His hands shook and he couldn't slow down, mustn't slow down--but speed-dials existed for a reason and he hit the first one with his thumb, his personal 911. _Come on, Scott, answer, answer, come on, come on._ He figured it was the middle of the night, dark as pitch, but Scott had werewolf hearing; he'd hear the phone, he'd answer.

But Scott didn't answer and the light died on his phone. He stared at the inert lump in his hand before it slipped out of his fingers and he didn't dare stop to grab it; no point, anyway, it was out of charge just when he most needed it. He tripped and fell headfirst against a tree, felt the scrape of bark along his cheek, and the shapeless terror behind him was getting closer, it was so fucking close now he could feel hot breath against the back of his neck....

Stiles flailed awake, gasping, and stared wildly around his room. His room. His bed. His heart was still hammering and his fucking thigh muscles were twitching as though he'd really run a death marathon. He turned sharply to the window, but it was shut, secure; nothing looming, nothing ominous--and the tree outside was silvered in moonlight. He leaned forward, hands tangled in the blanket, until he could glimpse the gibbous moon through the branches. Not a dark, soulless night, then. Just a freaking nightmare that'd felt too damned real.

He drew a deep shaky breath, then another, concentrating as hard as he could on calming his heart's staccato pounding and his erratic breathing. He got up when his shaking legs would hold him and went out into the hall, its dim light left on as always so he wouldn't trip down the stairs or do himself any other injury just getting from his bedroom to the bathroom and back. Mom had changed the bright bulb to a low-voltage one so it could be left burning at night without overwhelming sleep-heavy eyes.

"Giant nightlight," he'd decided, and she'd laughed and hugged him. He didn't even know if that was a true memory or a story someone had told him later.

He pressed a trembling hand over his face and went into the bathroom to douse himself with water that ran from cool to warm as it washed over his fingers and dripped down his neck. By the time he'd dried off and peed, his stomach had settled and his heart wasn't beating a drum in his ears anymore. He wasn't certain he could sleep again, or if he even wanted to try, but he was pretty sure he could lie down and at least rest without freaking out.

On his way back to his room, he paused to look at Dad's shut door, then detoured to stand before it. He put his palm flat against the cool wood and leaned his head close. After a moment's concentration, blanking out everything else, he could hear Dad's quiet, even breathing. He felt the comfort of Dad's near presence, remembering other nightmares, so damned many after Mom was gone, and Dad always being there, gathering him up in his strong arms; the strongest, most steady arms in the world. Dad's voice in his ear a tether he'd clung to knowing it'd never break and never not be there when he needed to grab for it. Even when Dad had smelled faintly of whiskey, his arms had been as strong and his voice as steady, his warm body as encompassing and sure as the sun in the morning and the stars at night.

The last dregs of his terror drained away. The last sliver of doubt faded because Dad was here and safe and would be at his side in an instant if Stiles needed him. All he had to do was reach out or call and Dad would gather him up and be a barrier between him and whatever the threat was, either cold reality or fevered terror.

"Oh," he thought, and pressed his hand harder against the wood till he could feel the grain itself under his palm.

He went back to bed and stared at the ceiling, watching the shifting shadows as the last hours of the night passed in this room Dad had made into a sanctuary for him. He sorted through old memories, some he'd repressed for years or had never examined with older eyes, like the one where Dad had wanted to move after Mom died, but Stiles had found the idea of leaving this house where she was stamped into every corner, every inch, so horrifying that Dad had grabbed him and hugged him and said, _No, it's okay, son, it's all right, we're not going anywhere_ , and never mentioned it again.

He'd been too young then to realize how hard it might've been for his father to stay here where memories of her were stamped into every corner, every inch.... He'd been too young and deep in his own grief to think about anyone but himself and what he needed, what he wanted. And that was okay; he'd only been eight. But he was almost seventeen now and he could see more clearly down the deep well of these past years and how Dad hadn't had the haven of strong arms and a steady voice and an absolutely rock steady dependability to turn to or lean on. Dad had been alone in the darkest time of his life, and Stiles never had been and never needed to be alone, then or now, unless he chose it.

High cholesterol and greasy foods weren't the only things that could contribute to a heart attack. Stress was the silent killer. Isn't that what the websites said? He'd browsed enough of them over the years in his determination to keep Dad safe and at his side for as long as possible.

_Stress, the silent killer._

By the time dawn brightened his window, he knew what he had to do.

\-----

Scott clapped him on the shoulder from behind as Stiles entered the school and headed for his locker. Stiles gave a quick smile in response to Scott's bright grin, which dimmed as Scott took a good look at him.

"Whoa, dude, you look rough. Did you not go to bed last night?"

"Yeah, just didn't sleep so great. I'm okay."

They parted for first period, then came together for their second class, where they met their new English teacher. Not the knock-out Ms. Blake had been, but he figured that could only be a good thing. The class involved roll call and getting them all on the same page--so to speak, ha ha--like the first day of school all over again. Only without the clusterfuck of suicidal birds dive-bombing the windows, which said windows he spent the first portion of this class staring out of more than he probably should've.

He didn't see Scott again until lunchtime in the cafeteria, which he made a point of getting to quickly. He slid into the empty seat across from Scott.

"So," he started, then stuttered to a stop, floundering as he tried to find the words he needed. His breath hitched as Scott put his phone aside and looked at him while taking a big bite of his soggy looking pasta. Scott lifted his eyebrows at him as he chewed.

Stiles couldn't help smiling, and tried to ignore the pang in his chest. The others would turn up soon--he could see Isaac's yellow sweater in the line at the counter across the room, for one.

"I guess it's best just to say this outright."

He pursed his lips as Scott swallowed, frowning now, and opened his mouth. Stiles barreled on before Scott could say anything, looking up to meet Scott's eyes with a steady gaze and talking in a low voice as rapidly as he could.

"I had what you might call an epiphany last night. About my dad and how I keep trying to protect him, but instead I've just been adding to the stress he lives with every day. I mean, he's the sheriff. He has a lot of job-related stress. And for this past year, I've been adding to it at home by all the lies. He has no one but me, and he can't even depend on that anymore because he has no clue what I'm doing or even who I am."

He winced again at the realization he'd come to in the heart of the night that he was likely the most hurtful and worrying thing in Dad's life, even worse than the dangers of his job.

"I can't do it to him anymore. No more lying, no more going behind his back and worrying him about all the stuff I'm doing that he doesn't understand."

Scott looked solemn and attentive; and, fuck, time was running out.

"Okay," Scott said, "so you want to tell him? We can do that."

Stiles laughed, short and bitter. "No. I don't want to tell him unless it turns out he's in danger because he _doesn't_ know. But I don't think that's the danger right now." He took a breath, fighting the roiling in his gut. "I'm the danger, Scott. To my own dad. So I just needed to tell you I'm through. I can't do this anymore. I can't lie to him and live a double life where he has no hint I have this other, shadow existence."

Isaac was heading toward them with his tray. Stiles stopped, staring at Isaac, and something must've shown on his face because Scott turned around, then lifted his hand and gave some kind of signal so Isaac, looking surprised but acquiescent, detoured to a different table. Scott turned back to him.

Scott was frowning, his eyes wide. "So what do you want to do?"

Stiles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, see, you're okay now. Right? You're in control...hell, you're an alpha, for crap's sake. You've got your...your pack. The guys. And Allison and Lydia. I have to put my dad first from now on, so I'm really just saying I won't be around anymore for any--" he dropped his voice even further "--wolfy stuff. Not for research or bat duty or looking for clues or anything." He shrugged. "I have to...give all that up. No more supernatural doings for Stiles."

Scott was nodding, but Stiles wasn't sure he actually got it yet. He swallowed and bit the bullet.

"I'll miss you, buddy. I always figured we'd be best bros forever."

He tried to ignore the way Scott's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, and hurried on:

"But I can't hang around with you and the others anymore. If I stick around, I'll get drawn into it again. Something'll happen and I'll know about it and somebody I care about might be threatened and I'll be back to helping to deal with it and--" his voice caught "--lying to my dad. I don't want any of you to get hurt." He shifted as a chill washed down his back. "But my dad comes first. He has to because you have your pack, you all have each other, and you've got your mom, who knows now, and Deaton; heck, even Chris Argent is actually helpful these days. And Lydia's as good at research as I am.

"My dad only has me."

He stood up and looked down at Scott's stunned face staring up at him. "Could you let the others know? I can't have this conversation over and over." He stopped as his voice broke.

He held out his fist and, after a moment, Scott bumped his fist to it.

"Stiles..." he heard as he turned away, already missing the warmth of Scott's touch, his voice, his fucking presence, but he didn't look back as he left the cafeteria with long, fast steps.

In the washroom, he locked himself in a stall and sat down on the toilet seat. He waited through the struggle to get his breathing evened out and fight back the prickle in his eyes, then swiped his sleeve over his face and emerged into his new life.

\-----

He met Savvy ten days later. The weather was nice, so he'd taken to eating lunch outside at the picnic tables. Avoiding the cafeteria as a way to avoid Scott and the others was a short-term remedy, but he was okay making himself a sandwich and bringing it and juice and an apple or whatever he craved in his backpack. He listened to his iPod to deaden the outside world, and read or got a start on some homework so he'd have more time to mess around gaming or just vegging out in front of the TV in the evening. He and Dad were bonding over dissing everything from the current football season to ancient monster movies, which were just _deliciously_ awful, even more delightfully hokey than he remembered from when he and Dad used to watch shit like this together on Friday nights when he was a kid.

They hadn't done this sort of thing together for way too long. Dad even stopped bringing work home every night, cutting it down to only when it was necessary, and he did more delegating at work to free up time. Stiles' stomach churned when he realized Dad had been using work to keep from dwelling on his worry and fears, and Stiles had never noticed.

Dad laughed more. Watching the laugh lines overpower the worry lines on Dad's face eased something tight in Stiles' chest, too, and he knew he was doing the right thing.

He saw the others around school, of course. Lydia watched him sometimes, attentive, and had ventured a hesitant smile the first time their eyes met across a corridor. He'd given a quick smile and nod back, then turned resolutely away. Allison had waved tentatively at him in the library, and he'd done the same quick smile and nod, as impersonal as he could manage, before bending back over his book. Isaac kept away, and looked cautious when they passed in the halls. Once he saw Isaac duck into a classroom rather than pass near him, and he was grateful to avoid another awkward moment.

Scott was always there, at the periphery of his awareness, but he didn't try to get Stiles' attention and he never phoned. Scott managed the same quick, small smiles, eyes glancing toward him before averting, that Stiles was becoming an expert at. When Lydia turned up at school one day with cuts showing under the long sleeves she wore on a warm October day, before she tugged the cuff down, his stomach did a flip of dread, but the others were around her, Aiden glued to one side of her and Allison to the other. Lydia walked with her usual confidence, head held high, and her eyes were steady. She was okay. She had her friends, Scott's pack, close around her, and they hadn't needed Stiles' help to protect her.

An insidious voice in his head whispered that maybe, if he'd been there, his skills could've kept her from being hurt at all. And who knows how much terror she'd been through in whatever had happened? He hadn't any idea, but he could imagine, could remember, and maybe he could've kept her from some of that, too.

But that was a different world from his now. She was fine. Scott had kept her safe somehow. They all had, as they would always protect each other. Dad needed him more, and he was okay with that, too.

He was lonely, though. He'd never had a lot of friends before the whole werewolf business--though even after, most of them hadn't been friends (Erica, Boyd, Jackson, Cora, the twins) as much as fellow soldiers of a sort; or teammates, maybe, was a better analogy, Team Werewolf and Co.--but he'd always had at least one close friend. Heather, way back when they were little; Scott, from when he was a bit older. Someone to talk to about stuff Dad wasn't interested in: because talking, man, talking was like breathing! It was a necessity of life! He was going kind of nuts with no one to talk to but his iPod and his computer screen and the TV. And the interior of his Jeep. And trees, when he was out running and not gasping for breath.

Because, oh, yeah, he'd quit the lacrosse team. Too many memories, and he didn't want to sit on the bench watching Captain Scott and his most valuable player Isaac wipe the field with their awesome skills, even if they did keep them reined in these days. He'd checked out the track and field team instead because he actually liked running, when it wasn't for his life. All those suicides Coach Finstock had made them do had built up his endurance more than he'd realized.

He was a hazard to himself and others if anybody put a hurdle in his path, but sprints and relays and longer distance running were actually enjoyable, even if he wasn't ever likely to bring home a trophy. He didn't make any friends off the bat there, since most of them had been working out together since junior year, or even as freshmen, but he learned names and they learned his and it was comfortable enough.

Didn't help his loneliness, ultimately, so when he noticed a girl sitting by herself a few days in a row at lunchtime, he took a breath, made an instant decision, and detoured to the picnic table she was at instead of going to his usual one.

"Hey, hi! Would you mind if I joined you? Unless you're waiting for someone?"

She looked up at him with her head tilted, eyes hidden as the sun turned her glasses into mirrors, then gave a little shrug and matching little smile. "If you want, sure."

He sat down and pulled off his backpack to dig out his lunch. "Great, thanks. I'm Stiles, by the way."

Once seated opposite her, he could see her gaze was direct and focused. _A little like Lydia,_ he thought with a pang, though her eyes were a rich, dark brown.

Savvy, short for Savannah, had just transferred in. They hit it off immediately. On Stiles' side, that had a lot to do with the way she assessed him for a few minutes with her clear, level eyes as he talked and gestured with the hand holding his sandwich, then held out her hand across the table and, after he'd dropped his sandwich and wiped his fingers on his pants, gave him a firm handshake while telling him her name. He'd always liked people who thought before they acted and knew what they wanted. If he hadn't passed her initial assessment, or whatever it was she did, he figured she'd have just given him a nod, picked up her stuff, and left him sitting there alone. Forthright was the word that came first to his mind when he thought of her; forthright and not into putting up with crap or boredom.

Dad actually seemed relieved when Stiles brought up Savvy in conversations. He'd asked about Scott, a little hesitant, and Stiles had tensed, but kept his voice as even as he could.

"He's spending more time with Allison, you know, and Isaac these days. No big deal. We just...drifted apart. Different interests now. I guess it was inevitable; I just never realized that's how it would work as we got older."

"So, no fight?"

He'd grinned. "No, Dad, no fight. We're good; no worries. Just growing apart."

Dad and Savvy hit it off right away. When Stiles brought her home the first time, she assessed Dad, he assessed her--damn, they shared that quiet, intense focus and ability to read people; he hadn't even noticed until he saw them doing it to each other!--then they relaxed and were cool with each other. Stiles got along well with Savvy's family, too. Her mom was the new librarian, so book talk abounded at their house. Even Savvy's kid brother, adjusting his little spectacles, liked to talk about what he was reading. The kid was currently in a dinosaur stage. Stiles had _loved_ his dinosaur stage! If he happened to reread a few, or maybe all, of his books from that era before lending them to the kid, no one had to know. ( _Shut up, Savvy! Dinosaurs are awesome!_ )

He and Dad celebrated his seventeenth birthday with Savvy and her family in a Mexican restaurant. He even spent a weekend in the mountains with Savvy's family over the Christmas break, learning how to ski. Or at least how to wobble on skies. Coach Myers, who clearly wasn't going to forget the hurdles incident any time soon, had said dryly, "Trust me, kid, avoid the downhill, at least for your first time. You'll probably find cross country right up your alley, though. Good for your stamina and thigh muscles."

"Snowshoeing!" He'd been hit with the blinding beauty of this idea. "Will they have snowshoeing? Is snowshoeing even a thing at a ski resort?"

Coach had just laughed and walked away, shaking her head. Savvy's mom laughed, too, but she also made sure he got to snowshoe. He'd made Savvy go with him, and she'd been kind about his predictable falling on his face and didn't take more than a couple dozen pictures of him trying to flail his way out of a snow bank with his big-ass and totally wonderful snowshoes sticking up in the air.

So that was his new life, and it was okay. It was more than okay because Dad was so much more relaxed now that it made Stiles' stomach fizz to remember just how tense things had been between them before, which became much clearer once he had perspective. Savvy was fun, her family was cool, and, while she was completely normal--no supernatural _anything_ about her; no genius, either, or amazing special skills, like lethal archery mojo--that was all to the good. They didn't talk about shit like the supernatural except in regards to TV shows and movies: which was an advantage because, like an anchor to the mundane world, she kept him grounded.

Sometimes he knew something was going down in town just from peripherally glimpsing Scott's pack huddling in small groups, tension like a force around them repelling outsiders. Sometimes one or more of their desks would be empty in class, or Allison or Lydia would turn up with bruises or scrapes and dark rings under their eyes. Sometimes Dad had to spend extra hours working some bad case, or related cases; bodies, gore...animal attacks. Howls in the night he blanked out with his iPod. He never asked Dad about any of his work these days. He immersed himself in Savvy and her completely ordinary family and in Dad and their safe cocoon he was determined to protect with everything in his power for as long as he could.

One cold night in the new year, he and Savvy ditched their respective virginities together, sneaking off to a cheap motel on the outskirts of town since it was either that or the backseat of his Jeep, and Savvy vetoed that idea before he'd barely had a chance to propose it. They left the motel after three hours--it was a school night; they had curfews!--ridiculously pleased with themselves and each other and their new states of being, but with their friendship intact and a mutual decision not to do that together again. They'd fumbled a lot and giggled a bunch, and he figured he'd had the best first time he could ever have hoped for, seeing as first times were notoriously bad and/or embarrassing shit.

He was totally going to find it fun for the rest of his life being able to say he lost his virginity with his best friend.

He lost his gay virginity (was "gay virginity" a thing? It should totally be a thing) with a high-jump star who sported a dorky little retro ponytail at the base of his neck. High jumpers have amazing thigh muscles! He noted that down in his secret, password-protected diary after he got home, still glowing. He checked himself out in the mirror; he was definitely glowing!

Experiences, was all he was saying: he was having them, and they were mostly good. His life wasn't the same as it had been, and the old familiar parameters he'd always thought would be there were gone. At times, he still had to physically put down his phone and take a deep breath to stop himself from calling Scott to share something with him, and a dark emptiness in his chest never quite stopped aching, a hole of loss, but life as an ordinary guy living an ordinary life--illusory though its ordinariness might be--was far from the worst life he could have.

He already knew that for a fact.

\-----

He was with Dad in the grocery store on a rainy Saturday at the end of January, arguing the merits of turkey over pork bacon for the umpteenth time, a comforting, familiar routine, when he looked up and lost all track of what he was saying. In an instant, his senses narrowed to a pinpoint: To black leather and a saturnine face and broad, square shoulders; to the click of boot heels; the scent of fresh air and forest; the taste of excitement and wildness.

Derek looked up and their eyes locked. Stiles' stomach lurched as the careful construct of the life he'd meticulously built over these past months seemed to teeter on the verge of collapse.

Then Dad spoke his name, and his voice, deepened with concern, broke the moment. Stiles' awareness flooded back and he felt the ache in his hand where he was gripping the handle of the shopping cart, heard Elton John crooning on the store's radio set to the local Oldies station, smelled the usual mix of cleaners and packaging and people. Derek was moving then--had he been frozen, too, or did it all happen in a nanosecond?--coming toward them, a bright yellow shopping basket looking incongruous in his hand.

He'd've laughed once at the sight, he knew, though he could hardly remember that Stiles, that person he'd locked away.

Derek paused beside them. "Sheriff." His voice was quiet, calm. "Stiles."

"Derek." Dad sounded equally polite and cautious.

Stiles remotely noted he barely had to look up at all now to meet Derek's eyes. "Hey."

Derek blinked his eyes away, nodded to them, and walked away toward the cashier.

Dad turned to Stiles with a frown. "Something wrong?"

He managed a smile. "Nope, no. I was just surprised for a minute there. I didn't know he'd come back to town."

Then he clamped his mouth shut and pushed the cart forward, away from the bacon toward the lean cuts. He knew Derek would still be able to hear them. He talked about meat; meat was a safe topic even in a world where exchanging stiff pleasantries with a werewolf in the grocery store was an unordinary, but entirely plausible, occurrence.

It was almost funny how he'd managed to forget the sheer dynamism of Derek's broody, black-clad presence.

After that, he ran into Derek with uncanny regularity, as though his once being close enough to smell Derek's black leather again were enough to awaken some evil sprite to his, Stiles', existence, with ongoing torment to follow. It was freakish. He managed to steer clear of all the multiple wolves at school on a daily basis, but one lone ex-alpha with the entirety of the town in which to avoid each other? Fuck, no! 

He and Savvy were in the coffee shop on Main, gabbing about potential dates for the upcoming Valentine's Day dance when Savvy's gaze sharpened over his shoulder.

"Oh, yeah...." She smiled with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

He grinned, knowing that smile. One of the fun things about Savvy was that they discussed hot girls and hot guys with equal enthusiasm, and while their tastes weren't always congruent, they almost always agreed on basic esthetics.

"Yeah?" He swiveled around, expecting to spot the person who'd lit her fire. He wasn't expecting to see Derek, who looked up at that same moment and stared as Stiles gaped at him. Derek looked vaguely amused, going by the miniscule lift of his left eyebrow, and Stiles snapped his mouth shut. When Derek nodded at him he nodded back and turned around to face Savvy, slumping down in his chair.

"Seriously? Isn't he a little old for you?"

She lifted her own eyebrow at him and glanced across the room again, then laughed. "Seriously? Dude, come on. When have I been into bad boys with bulging muscles in black leather?"

"Is that a rhetorical question? Also, only a C+ for your alliteration effort."

She tilted her head. The head-tilt of doom. "You know him. Wow. He does seem a bit old even for you."

He crossed his arms across his chest. "He's not that old. And what do you mean, 'even' for me?" Then he caught himself and sat up, flinging his arms out. "No! I don't know him! I knew him once, but that was awhile ago."

"You did know him! Tell me all about your exciting secret life. I can't believe you've been holding out on me!"

He blinked, then his brain caught up and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "No, god, no, I never _knew_ -knew him! I just knew him, or of him. Briefly. Met him. Ages ago now. Months. Jesus." He swiped a hand down his face and risked another look over his shoulder, relieved to see Derek was gone. More precisely, Derek's werewolf ears were gone. Hopefully. Unless they were lurking in the bathroom.

Derek wouldn't lurk in the bathroom, he assured himself, just to hear Stiles making a fool of himself.

Savvy was looking at him with narrowed eyes. "Why are you whispering? He was all the way across the room, sheesh."

He glanced behind himself again and this time saw a guy from the Debate Club--Brett?--who looked somewhat like a young Denzel Washington and was _totally_ Savvy's type, because Savvy had good taste and they shared that in common. He turned around and looked at her with a conspiratorial grin.

The library was a haven, too, where he never had to worry about running into werewolves. The school library, sure, but he avoided that one except when necessary for classes. The town library, however, where Savvy's mom worked, was always werewolf free...until the day he emerged from the stacks to see Derek across the room looking at, well, a book. Stiles stared, before shaking himself and going to the spot where he'd dumped his backpack. He meant to bury himself in his work, but couldn't resist one glance up--at exactly the moment Derek lifted his head and scanned the room until their eyes met. The corner of Derek's mouth twitched in what might be called a smile of sorts, which Stiles answered with a quick upturn of the corners of his own lips, then Derek went to the desk to check out not just one, but three books. Stiles just happened to notice that; he wasn't actually counting or anything.

The Jeep needed gas after school on Thursday. Getting gas was a regular occurrence in his life like every other car owner and the town didn't have just one gas station, obviously, not by a long shot. Beacon Hills was small, not miniscule. The chances of running into someone you knew weren't great; well, maybe if you used the closest gas station to your house at a particularly busy time, you might bump into a neighbor, but he wasn't even doing that. Yet after putting the nozzle into the gas tank and turning to look about, he froze as he saw Derek staring at him from two pumps over, where apparently he was in the middle of filling his own tank. Stiles gave a sickly smile and half-hearted wave, waited for Derek's usual minimalist response, and turned around to wash the windshield while waiting for the pump to finish.

And so it went, with glimpses here and there in unexpected places until it felt like nowhere in town was a Derek Hale-free zone. What the fuck, world? Even the fucking Dollar Store wasn't safe ground; he popped in for a quick purchase, rounded a corner and met Derek just rounding the corner into the same aisle at the other end. They stopped, stared, did their half-assed smile exchange and he hoofed it out of there; he couldn't even remember what he'd gone in for as he drove away.

When he and Savvy went to the cinema, he looked around furtively, by that time expecting to see Derek's unmistakable silhouette looming at some point during the movie. Savvy pressed her fingers around his jiggling hand partway through, looking a question at him; but he was okay, he didn't need to leave. He let her firm grip ground him and focused on the movie and managed to forget about Derek and relax enough to enjoy himself.

The following evening, as he and Dad settled at the dinner table, he said, casually as he could, "So, have you seen Derek around much?"

Dad's eyebrows shot up and he swallowed his mouthful before saying, "Derek Hale? No. Should I have?"

"No, no. Not really. Just, you know, small town and you do patrols and get around to lots of places, so I just wondered."

"The town's not that small, Stiles." Dad frowned, looking wary, the way he used to look all the time, and Stiles' gut cramped to see that look return; he couldn't go back to worrying Dad with secrets and lies. He wouldn't.

He took a breath. "It's just, this is really weird, but I keep seeing him. Like, everywhere. In the strangest places. Well, they're not so much strange places in themselves, just unexpected places to see Derek Hale. Like the downtown library. And the gas station. Even the Dollar Store!"

He looked expectantly at Dad, the fount of wisdom and answers to the mysteries of the universe in his childhood, but Dad just grinned and dug into his food again. "Doesn't seem all that strange. Maybe he likes to read and needs gas and hunts for cheap bargains. Like most ordinary, normal people." He took a big bite of Stiles' outstanding low-fat lasagna (Weight Watchers microwaveable, but no one needed to know that).

And that was the thing, he pondered as he ate. All those places were ordinary enough for ordinary people, like him, but Derek wasn't an ordinary person.

At least, he'd never thought of Derek as ordinary. Supercharged, larger than life; scary, back in the beginning, menacing. Monstrous.

No, not monstrous, not even at the start of it all. But not somebody you expected to see in routine places doing routine crap.

Like an ordinary _person_. He sank down on his bed later that night, half-undressed, T-shirt bunching in his hands. He'd never thought of Derek as a person. Not fully. Scott was a person, obviously; Scott was always a person first, werewolf second, because he'd actually _been_ a person first, one hundred percent human. Isaac--he hadn't known Isaac before he became a wolf, but even with Isaac's terrifying, out-of-control moments when he'd first turned, Stiles had never thought of Isaac as other than a person. A person with personhood. Erica and Boyd, too. Even the twins when themselves and not in their ginormous wolfy form.

But not Derek. Derek had always been werewolf first--a creature; a thing--and person a distant second. A very distant second.

He lay down in bed feeling queasy.

\-----

He spotted Derek around and about with a bizarre regularity that defied coincidence. He was like a Derek-magnet. Or maybe Derek had a Stiles-magnet. At least one of them was magnetized. Okay, fuck it, that analogy was crap.

When he met Derek's eyes through the leaves of a shelf of potted begonias in the fucking _garden shop_ , he pursed his lips and marched around the aisle to stand before him.

"Hey."

Derek gave him the usual sardonic eyebrow-lift. "Stiles."

"What are you doing here?"

The eyebrow-lift morphed into a frown. Derek lifted a...water sprayer? A green plastic spray bottle.

"You got a _plant_? Something, like, living to look after?"

There went the eyebrows again, both of them straight up. "Cora bought a plant, then left it with me with threats if I let it die."

Stiles cracked a smile at that before remembering how irritated he was. "Okay, fascinating to know. Look, are you following me? Because this skulking about wherever I go is really old, dude. Did Scott put you on Stiles watch or something?"

Derek turned away, shaking his head. "I haven't seen Scott. Even if I had, I wouldn't do anything he told me to."

Stiles hurried to catch up with him. "Wait, you haven't seen Scott? Not once since coming back to town? I've been seeing you for ages!"

That got him an amused glance. "I've been back for three weeks."

"Three weeks, man! And how often have we seen each other in that time? Okay, I've lost count, but it's been way too often for coincidence!"

"Then it must be fate. Lucky me." Derek paid cash for his spray bottle and walked outside into sunshine as cool and dry as his tone.

"Wait, wait. You've been back three weeks? That day in the grocery store, when I was with my dad, wasn't that about three weeks ago?"

"Yeah, I'd just driven into town and stopped to pick up some supplies."

Stiles felt his mouth drop open. "I saw you the minute you rolled back into town."

Derek shrugged and kept walking across the parking lot. Stiles kept pace, chewing on his lip. "Why haven't you seen Scott? I mean, he's an alpha now. Don't you have to, I don't know, ask permission to be in his territory or something?"

Derek stopped by his car and sighed. "It's Hale land."

"Yours? Does that work when you're not an alpha anymore?"

And that was definitely annoyance now as Derek faced him. "It's my _land_ , Stiles. I own it. Hales have owned our land for several generations. I don't need anyone's permission to live on my own fucking property."

"Oh."

 _Fuck._ He'd done it again, he realized: thought of Derek as principally a creature rather than a person.

He let his chagrin show in his voice. "Sorry. So, are you going to join Scott's pack?"

"No." Derek unlocked his car.

"But wouldn't it be safer for you to be part of a pack? That whole strength-in-numbers thing?"

Derek got in the car, tossing his spray bottle onto the passenger seat, but Stiles was standing in the door, so he couldn't shut it. Derek glared up at him. "I told you, I haven't seen him. If he wants me to join his pack, he hasn't said so; and if he does ask me, I'll say no. Okay?"

"But--" He stared down at Derek, feeling a niggle of worry. It was bad enough being a human without friends, never mind family as well. Being an omega werewolf carried all sorts of other dangers, didn't it? "Does he know you're back?"

"I assumed you told him right after seeing me that first day." Derek reached for the door handle; he'd be manhandling Stiles out of the way in a minute, Stiles knew. He stood his ground.

"What? No. Why would I--? Oh, wait. So you really haven't seen any of them? Not even Isaac?"

"No." Derek shoved him away and started to pull the door shut.

Stiles grabbed it and held on. "Wait a minute! Just, if you haven't seen any of them, then you probably don't know. I'm not part of it anymore. I had to choose, you know? It was worrying my dad, all the lies I kept telling him. Stress isn't good for him; he gets enough of it with his job. I had to put him first."

Derek had paused and was looking up at him properly, no irritation in his eyes now, though maybe some surprise, if Stiles was reading him right.

"That's good. I'm glad for you. Take care, Stiles." The last words even had warmth in them.

Stiles stepped back and let him close the door. He watched Derek drive away before turning to cross the parking lot to his Jeep.

\-----

The "sightings," as Stiles took to calling them in his head, continued: because apparently Beacon Hills, a small but not _that_ small town, was a fricking _hamlet_ when it came to himself and Derek Hale. It stopped being eerie and became amusing, a joke they shared as they exchanged half-grins and shrugs and what-can-you-do hand flails across stores and parking lots and even at red lights, for chrissake.

He and Savvy double-dated for the spring dance on a Friday night in March, she with Brett from the Debate Club and he with a gymnast Savvy had bonded with while Stiles was out running relays with the track team and upping his endurance. The dance was interrupted halfway through by the lights all going off and, in the dark, the sound of quiet but fucking obvious growls. He didn't waste a second, just grabbed Savvy and their respective dates and hustled all three of them out of there.

"This town and animal attacks, man," he said as they tumbled into his Jeep, the other three breathless from the fast pace he'd forced them to. He smiled brightly. "Dairy Queen, anyone?"

He ignored their wide eyes and horrified looks out the windows and put the Jeep into gear.

Ignoring the hollow feeling in his gut and the worry for people he still cared about was harder, but he managed, because that's what he did now. He managed. That's what online games and DVD marathons were for: channeling his thoughts in safer directions.

The following Sunday, he was doing warm-up stretches in the park near the Preserve when Derek appeared beside him--and actually stopped. Stiles glanced up, then reared back, stumbling. Derek grabbed his arm with his supernaturally quick reflexes and kept him on his feet.

"Oh my god, heart-attackville! Nice to see you?" He said the last bit quickly to try to cover the squeak in his voice in the first bit.

Derek's grin told him it didn't quite work. Oh, well. Derek sobered and gave him a once-over.

"I heard you were at the dance at the school Friday night."

"Yeah, yeah, I was, but I got my friends out of there as soon as the lights went out. I-- Wait, were you concerned I might've got hurt or something?"

Derek looked pained. Having feelings: like a pin stuck under your fingernails. The bastard.

"That's sweet." Stiles beamed, because he might not be involved with any werewolf shenanigans anymore, but he was still the same old Stiles. "You care!"

Derek rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Good to see you're okay." He gave a nod and walked away.

Stiles battled with himself for a moment, then called, "Did somebody get hurt?"

Derek paused, turning to glance back over his shoulder. "Not seriously, and nobody in Scott's group."

"Okay. That's...good. Thanks."

Derek left, walking into the Preserve and vanishing around a curve in the jogging trail. Stiles watched him go, wondering if Derek had been involved in whatever happened last night, if he'd been hurt, seriously or not; if Scott or Isaac had been. He'd seen Danny dancing with Ethan, but Stiles had steered his date away immediately until Stiles lost sight of Danny in the crowd. He didn't know how much Danny was aware of these days, if anything, but he was sure Ethan would've protected him, at least. And he hadn't seen her, but if Lydia was there, it was probably with Aiden, since they still seemed to be a thing, and he'd've kept her safe. Allison had both Scott and Isaac looking out for her, if she needed help at all in that department. She probably carried a miniature folding bow in a hidden thigh holster, or something equally awesome. Everybody was likely fine.

And he didn't need to be thinking about any of that; whatever happened wasn't his business.

He was glad they were all safe, though.

\-----

He and Dad spent a Sunday afternoon during Spring break at the golf course, where they discovered Stilinski men shared a genetic inability to control tiny white balls on vast fields of green. Dad had tears in his eyes from laughing as Stiles watched with his mouth gaping as yet another ball made a fricking _right-angle_ turn in mid-air and plopped into a pond.

"That is not even physically possible!"

Dad slung an arm across his shoulders and, between snorting laughs that sounded like the weirdest, but most comforting, music, said, "How about we adjourn to the mini-golf area? We're kings there!"

Which they so were, and so they did and showed those balls who ruled.

Despite glancing surreptitiously around every once in a while, Stiles didn't catch a glimpse of Derek once, not the entire time, not even when he and Dad rounded off the day with dinner at Denny's.

"We had a freaking awesome day!" he opened his nightly Skype with Savvy. And if, while giving her the high points and getting her to commune with him over the innate evilness of golf balls, he didn't mention the slight hollowness he felt at not having sighted Derek, that was okay. Savvy didn't know Derek. It was safer that way. She didn't need to know Derek, not even just the person-Derek.

Derek was simply a...remnant of Stiles' former life. A shadow who moved through the mundane world Stiles now wholly (mostly) inhabited.

But thinking about Derek made him wonder what it felt like from the other side; from Derek's side. How would it feel to move through an entire population that was ignorant of your true existence? Tides of people flowing constantly around you who saw only part of you, glimpsed only one side, and hadn't any conception of the hidden dangers you lived with and had to be wary of every moment: Of seemingly ordinary people just like them who might be hiding hate and guns under smiles and innocuous clothes, might be harboring the secret of your true self under their own facade of normality. He wondered what it would be like to grow up like that, closely guarding who you actually were, never fully free.

Like those kids' stories about princes in hiding for their own safety, trying to masquerade as just an ordinary kid, but always carrying the fear of slipping, of trusting the wrong person; of ever daring to be fully themselves.

At least Scott had his mom, who knew all his secrets and would support and protect him to the death; and Isaac had Scott, and, therefore, by extension, Scott's mom, maybe not to the death, but her roof and support, anyway. Even Allison and her dad were allies these days, or they were the last he'd known. Ethan and Aiden had each other as well as Lydia and the others they could depend on. He supposed that was what made them a pack, having a few core people they could be entirely themselves and relax with, so they could walk among the mass of ordinary folks without a crushing sense of being alone and in constant potential danger.

People with whom no subterfuge was necessary. No lies or guardedness; no masks. He knew what both sides felt like now, both living a lie with the person he loved most and not having to lie.

Derek, both the person and the creature, had no one. His last two attempts, at least of what Stiles knew, to forge ordinary human connections had both ended in disaster, in blood, horror, and multiple deaths. Derek was equally alone in the supernatural world; an invisible minority of one. He must exist in a state of hypervigilance, Stiles supposed, always poised for attack, trying to be prepared even though it was futile. Never sure when turning his back might lead to a knife or bullet slamming into it, and if--when--that happened, with no one to turn to for help. No protection; no defenses except his own teeth and claws.

No pack. No family around him, since Cora didn't seem to be around. No fucking friends, even. No one to touch; no one to hug, or to hug him. How would Derek, with his history, even dare trying to interact other than facilely with anyone again? Saying _hi_ and _thanks_ at the grocery store and the library might be the sum of Derek's contact with other people in any given week. Derek might not be a genius, but he wasn't an idiot. He learned from his mistakes--eventually--and he could read a pattern as well as Stiles could when it amounted to a fucking neon plaid. And that pattern said Derek Hale couldn't dare trust anybody in either the mundane or the supernatural worlds.

Even if Scott asked, Derek wouldn't join his pack. That was dangerous, but-- Christ. Stiles rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. Too much bad history there, too. Too many resentments; way too much distrust. Scott would offer because he felt he should, not because he cared about Derek except in a general way, the way Scott cared about people in the abstract. Scott had never wanted to be part of Derek's pack, and now what was left of Derek's pack was Scott's pack, and there was no place for Derek.

Not in either world.

\-----

He landed a part-time job at the library in April, thanks to Savvy's mom. It was fucking awesome because it kept him occupied without forcing him to sit still and he made some money and got work experience while letting most of his brain diddle around with whatever other stuff was interesting him at the moment. Mostly it was reshelving books in the stacks, but he was also able to help out with the ongoing project of organizing the ebook lending program. Or at least wheedle his way into being allowed to enter data, which was a break from shelving and made him consider computer programming as a possible career move.

Or maybe not, he thought, as he took a break to stretch his legs and blink his vision clear of too much close work on a lighted screen. But it was more points on his hatchling resume, so there was that.

He was pushing the reshelving cart around a corner in the stacks one Wednesday after school when he saw Derek's unmistakable back, dark T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and biceps bulging even at rest. His leather jacket was hung over the back of the chair. Stiles licked his lips, skimming his eyes along Derek's right arm down to the dark-downed forearm resting on the table at an angle, then blinked his eyes away. He took a breath, then marched over, skirted the table, and slid into the chair opposite Derek, who glanced up without moving his head, then stared at him from that position.

"Hey, so." Stiles looked down at the book open on the table before Derek, then back up to meet Derek's steady gaze again. "I was just wondering how Cora is? I mean, I haven't seen her around, not even at school. I haven't been looking for her specially or anything, but we used to pass in the halls sometimes and I haven't even glimpsed her."

Derek stared at him, eyes glancing aside, then back, like he was wondering what the catch was, if it was a trick question. That hurt, oddly, and Stiles tried to project a look of open friendliness. No hidden motive here! Just your friendly neighborhood Stiles! Yeah, well.

He pushed himself up, grimacing with chagrin. "Sorry, none of my business. I just hope she's okay, you know."

He was turning away when Derek spoke in a low voice. "She's fine. She...didn't feel comfortable here. She's with good people."

He turned back, met Derek's wary eyes, and nodded. He managed a genuine smile. "I'm glad. Thanks."

He dove back into the stacks, and next time he looked, the table was empty. He banged his head rhythmically against one of the wooden shelves, hoping he hadn't chased Derek away from one of the few public places where he actually looked relaxed and almost (grumpily) happy.

The next time he saw Derek, in the mall's food court, he ducked behind a potted palm before looking for a table. After the first five minutes, he didn't bother trying to kid himself his eyes weren't continually drifting up to peer through the fronds specifically at Derek, rather than simply looking over the crowd. Derek was seated alone--of course--and bent over a book open on the table--also typical. Stiles squirmed in his seat, trying to quell the ache at knowing the book was a bastion against loneliness. People were less inclined to interrupt someone sitting alone absorbed in a book or phone or tablet, and with Derek's looks-- Hell, Stiles could see the assessing gazes directed at Derek from various quarters with just a glance around. He could tell some of them were whispering together about the leather-clad hottie, too, such as the three twenty-somethings at a table about equidistant from Stiles and Derek.

Stiles couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could read body language just fine. Derek, though, would be hearing every word unless he was managing to tune them out, focusing hard enough on his book. Derek couldn't really afford to do that, though, could he? Not in public. Not and be safe, make sure he didn't miss some early indication of danger. He must overhear people talking about him all the time, maybe scent the arousal, the want, covetousness. Did covetousness have a scent? He wouldn't be surprised, and, if it did, it had to be one of the most familiar of all to Derek whenever he was among strangers.

Because most people interested in him probably wanted to either hit him up or hit him. Desire or danger. In Derek's experience, the two were intertwined, maybe inextricably so by now.

Fuck.

He forced himself to stop spying on Derek; just leave him alone to enjoy whatever modicum of peace he could without more unwanted eyes cataloging him, another heartbeat speeding up for Derek to be alert to, to try to determine if the interest it signaled was threat or neutral.

He managed to engross himself in the next novel on the reading list for English, so he started when a shadow fell over the table. He squinted up to see Derek looming, body silhouetted against the rays pouring in the skylights. Stiles blinked up at him, then smiled.

"Oh, hey. Fancy seeing you." He grinned and saw Derek's teeth flash in an actual, god-that's-pretty smile.

Derek indicated the other chair at the small table with formal politeness. "Do you mind?"

Stiles shrugged. "Nah, 'course not."

Derek sat and said, "I just thought you might like to know about Cora."

Stiles straightened. "Yeah, absolutely." He thumbed his phone off and put it down.

"She wanted--needed--a pack. Family. She was young when we lost ours. She needed the safety, the security of people she trusts."

Stiles nodded, wincing. "I can see why she didn't feel all that comfortable here. Especially with everything else that happened while she was here." _Like her almost dying. Again. Twice._

Derek's eyes were on the table. Stiles looked down to Derek's hands knotted together, the veins on their backs looking hard and raised.

"Yeah. She couldn't have found a place here, not with me or in Scott's pack without me. I had nothing to offer her. But she was lucky." His mouth tightened, but his voice was even when he continued. "She was found by a small group soon after she escaped the house that day. Omegas, but living together for protection. No territory of their own, but they're smart and careful and their leader keeps them safe."

"Leader?" Stiles leaned forward, fascinated. "I thought omegas were loners by definition?"

Derek met his eyes. "Omegas are betas without an alpha. They're usually alone because the instinct for most wolves is to find a pack for protection, but sometimes it doesn't work out and a few will band together. Or, like Cora's group, they're mostly family. Omegas who meet, maybe marry or are siblings, have kids. Or adopt orphaned kids. Orphaned wolves."

"Like Cora."

Derek nodded. "Not usually kids that traumatized, but yeah. They took her in, looked after her. They keep on the move, which can be dangerous, but their leader sees it as the safest way for them. They only stay in areas where there's no pack presence and no obvious hunters, and just long enough to make enough money to tide them over to the next safe place to stop. And she's been right, so far." He laughed, his eyes crinkling. "They live in a converted bus, like hippies lifted straight out of the '60's. It draws attention, but people just write them off as eccentrics and don't look closer."

Stiles laughed, partly at imagining the incongruity of Cora in an old school bus painted in psychedelic flowers, and partly in startlement at the unexpected warmth of seeing Derek laugh.

Derek sobered. "Anyway, she wanted to go back to them."

"She hoped you'd stay with them, too." He read it in the tension in Derek's shoulders and the way he unclenched his hands only to hide them in his lap under the table.

Derek didn't answer for a moment, then said, "She settled back down with them, just like sliding back into family, and agreed to stay once she saw I was okay."

 _But you're not okay. Just a fucking good actor._ He swallowed a lump in his throat.

Derek stood and Stiles tilted his head up, watching Derek's face assume its usual expressionless mask. Derek gave a short, sharp nod, and turned to go.

"Thanks! I appreciate it; knowing." _And your trust in telling me._ "Tell her I said hi when you talk to her."

Derek nodded again, studying him for a long moment, then left.

He and Derek talked together, sometimes, after that, on their spooky random meetings. At least if they were both alone. If he was with Savvy or Brett or any of their tiny group of friends, Derek would maybe meet his eyes, maybe not, but always turned away quickly and disappeared. Stiles walked into the pizzeria on Main one afternoon and registered Derek sitting with Isaac, who was talking with intense focus and sharp gestures. Derek met Stiles' eyes in acknowledgement, face blank, and Stiles gave a quick smile behind Isaac's back and walked straight back out. 

"We're having a secret love affair, only without the love or the affair," Stiles said when Derek fell into step with him early one May morning while he was jogging.

Derek snorted. He kept pace for a mile, then lengthened his stride. Stiles kept up until Derek grinned at him and gunned ahead on his powerful werewolf legs.

"Show off!" Stiles yelled.

Derek turned and gave him a thumbs up. "Good work getting your endurance up!" He disappeared around a corner and was gone, maybe veered off into the woods, when Stiles turned it.

\-----

Stiles flopped onto the unexpectedly cuddly loveseat in the quiet back corner of Knothole Books and ignored Derek's grumpy eyebrows. He fished his list out of his backpack and smoothed it.

"Okay, so, since you're Mr. Bookman, I figured you could be helpful. Because clearly rabbits trump whales, but what about the dog, the hound, the elephant, and the cat?"

"What."

"End-of-year final English essay! I have to choose a book to do it on." He waved his list, which Derek batted away from his face. "Last year, I used the pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey method of choosing, but that had an unfortunate outcome of which we shall never speak. So, this time, I've narrowed it down to an animal theme because, dude, it's fascinating how many books turn on animal themes. Here."

He shoved the photocopied list at Derek, who elbowed him away, but took the paper.

"I've highlighted the animal ones and thrown a few out, so we're down to--" Stiles waved his pointing finger "--rabbits, dog, elephant, hound, or cat."

Derek frowned at the list and held it by the edges away from himself, which was totally unnecessary. It was only a few spatters of roasted red pepper sauce. Maybe a smear or two of mustard. And the shoeprint was almost entirely faded.

"I see _Never Cry Wolf_ got early elimination along with _Moby Dick_." Derek smirked, but he was relaxed into the cushions again.

Stiles felt the heat of Derek's thigh close to his own and inhaled the scent of woodsiness underlain with a faint trace of sweat. He clamped down on his awareness of Derek's dynamism and focused on the list.

"Damn straight. No wolves need apply." He stabbed his finger at _Water for Elephants_. "Circus setting! I keep meaning to see the movie, too. I could kill two birds with one stone. Hah! Two birds...."

Derek side-eyed him, then took a pen out of his pocket and put a black line through a novel. Stiles gaped between the pocket--Derek Hale carried a Bic pen in his sexy black leather jacket pocket!--the big hand wielding the pen, and Derek's front teeth closed around the pen's cap.

"What?" he said, valiantly trying to keep up. "What's that crossing out for?"

"You do know _Cat's Eye_ isn't actually about a cat, right?" Derek's voice held a glint of amusement.

"Really? Crap. Misleading titles. Next you'll tell me there's no hound in _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ , except you can't because I have seen that movie! The Tom Baker one, because there's no resisting old-school _Dr. Who_." He grabbed the pen and used Derek's rock-hard thigh as a desk to do his own crossing out, quick enough to beat Derek's jerking his leg to dislodge him. "Too many adaptations; I'd get caught up in needing to watch them all before even starting the essay."

He straightened. "Okay, we're down to rabbits, dog, or elephant. What d'you think?"

"Well, the dog in _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time_ is dead, though there is a pet rat. But I think it's up to you." Derek's thigh muscles tensed as he prepared to stand up.

Stiles sprang to his feet first. "Nah, don't move. I'm off. Didn't mean to chase you away or anything. It's been helpful; thanks, man."

He grabbed his backpack and waved a hand as he headed for the door.

Derek's quiet voice stopped him. "Stiles."

He turned and looked back. Derek had relaxed again, one hand on the book in his lap, the other resting on the warm spot where Stiles had been sitting. Late afternoon sun through the panes of the stained-glass window at his left sprinkled color like jewels over his dark hair and clothes.

"Try _Watership Down_. I think you might like that one. Lots to pick apart." His smile looked easeful, even mischievous. "Plus, there's a movie."

Mouth dry and warmth tingling along his nerves, Stiles nodded, smiled back, and left.

\-----

Arms loaded down with snacks and drinks, he was heading back to Dad waiting in the bleachers on a Friday night when a warm presence brushed up against him and his skin prickled. He paused as Derek tilted his head and spoke in a low voice.

"Stay out of the Preserve this weekend. And keep your friends away."

He met Derek's somber eyes and nodded. Before Derek could move away, Stiles said, "Wait. My dad--is there going to be some danger?"

Derek shook his head. "I don't think he'll be involved; we should be able to contain it and no one'll ever know anything."

He stared at Derek, searching for truth, wanting to believe: and realized he trusted Derek. He let out his pent breath.

"Okay. Thanks."

As Derek melted away into the crowd, Stiles whispered, "Take care." He saw Derek's head turn slightly just before Stiles lost sight of him and knew he'd heard.

"Derek Hale?" Dad's voice was mild as he took his share of the goodies.

Damn.

"Yeah, who'd've thought he'd be a baseball fan, huh." He popped the tab and took a long drink, trying to ignore the acid burn in his gut as he fell back into the old secretive ways.

He convinced Savvy and Brett, plus Savvy's gymnast friend and Brett's best bud in the Debate Club, to hang out all weekend, celebrating the upcoming last week of their junior year; Savvy and Brett's friends were also dating now, more or less, so that helped. The five of them paint-bombed each other, spent a few hours bowling on Saturday night, and took a run in the Jeep over to a fair in Hill Valley on Sunday. A simple weekend of fun and games; no terror, blood, or claws.

Boring as fuck, but.

But he kept them and himself safe, and had no reason to lie even once to Dad, who spent his sunny hours off duty clearing overgrown crap out of the garden and had the makings of tuna melts ready for all of them when they tumbled into the house hot and laughing from the fair. No emergencies, no calls from the Sheriff's office. Just a peaceful, mundane weekend.

And it wasn't fair, really, to say it'd been boring; he would've found it all a fun break if his brain hadn't kept wandering to the Preserve, chewing over what might be happening to people he still cared deeply for. Including Derek, who'd somehow gotten added to Stiles' roll-call of people he particularly wanted, needed, to know was safe.

He was deeply glad Derek wasn't fighting this thing, whatever the threat was, alone. He assumed Scott had been involved, too. Derek had said "we"; he'd noted that, heart thumping. Something in the woods big enough, or scary enough, for them to be working together. He focused on keeping his breathing even, not giving into the crushing sense of guilt that he wasn't there for them, anymore, in crises like this; to help if he could, however he might. New guilt exchanged for the old guilt of worrying Dad with his constant lies. He knew he'd done the right thing in putting Dad first, because nothing had changed on that front: Dad still had only him while Scott and the rest of their friends had each other to depend on. And Derek's help, too, apparently, when the need was strong enough.

He lay in bed that night, head buzzing, forcing himself not to grab his phone and fire off a text to Derek. Just to check; just to make sure that Derek was all right, that the rest of them--Scott and the others--were okay.

At least he could depend on seeing Derek randomly somewhere soon. Presumably. Given their magnetized non-love, non-affair...thing. And he might catch sight of Scott at school, or some of the others, if he looked around instead of carefully blanking his eyes and keeping his head down, focused on his phone, a book, his notepad. None of them except Lydia or Allison, if they were even involved, would show any marks, but it would be reassuring, anyway. Just to see them. Count heads, like a kindergarten teacher.

Sometimes missing Scott still came with a clawing pain of guilt and worry.

Eventually, he gave up, put his earphones in, and channeled as much of his overactive brain as he could into watching classic cheesy movies till he fell asleep while the Blob was eating Downingtown, PA.

Waking at dawn, he found a text message from Derek: 10-26

He flopped onto his back and grinned up at the ceiling. Then he sent a quick 10-4 in reply, stowed his laptop away, and turned over for another hour's sleep.

\-----

The next morning, he paused in his Jeep to write a text to Derek: _thanks. you know, for telling me. before and after._ He sat for a moment contemplating the words, finger hovering, then jumped at a sharp rap on the window. He turned to see Savvy staring at him with her eyebrows raised and head tilted toward the school. He glanced back at his phone, hit the button, then stowed the phone away and scrambled out to jog beside her through the parking lot.

During Chem in third period, he felt his phone vibrate. He sneaked it out of his pocket while Ms. Hendry was writing on the board and read the message under the shield of his desk: from Derek and consisting wholly of :-)

He swallowed a laugh and sent back :-D, then slid his phone away.

\-----

The sky was a blue bowl overhead, but the horse chestnut tree bracing his back bathed him in cool shade. He took a drink from his water bottle and gazed at the town spread out beneath him from the top of the Lookover. The place had some boring map name, called after some forgotten pioneer, but locals just called it the Lookover. Those who didn't call it Kissy Hill, or KH, for, er, obvious reasons.

He'd hiked up alone today and found it deserted as usual on a Wednesday afternoon. Dad was at work, and Stiles had finished his short shift at the library. Savvy and Brett had taken Savvy's kid brother to the water park for the afternoon, which he'd ducked out of, opting for some alone time to work on organizing his proposed suggestions for an upgrade of the library's online search site. He looked down at the notebook in his lap and added a ring around one of the points.

He started when a long shadow fell across his feet, sticking out into the sunshine. He looked up and relaxed when he saw Derek looming over him. Funny how a looming Derek used to make his heart ratchet up to scared-bunny tempo. Now he just grinned.

"Hey, fancy meeting you here."

Derek's voice hit that note of dry sarcasm he was master of. "Yeah, couldn't have predicted seeing you wherever I go."

"What, you mean you're still not stalking me? I'm wounded." He squinted up at Derek, who looked preternaturally tall and bulky against the bright sky. "Why don't you take a load off for a few minutes? No one here but us squirrels."

Derek snorted, but actually sank down to sit against the tree, moving with a fluid grace Stiles watched with envy and a lick of heated want. He blinked that reaction away, embarrassed, then slid Derek a sideways look.

"You know, you're the only person I know who texts without using actual _words_."

Derek half-smiled.

"But police scanner codes? Seriously? Dude, so weird! In a fantastically hilarious way."

"I thought you might be going through withdrawal, having given up your evil spying habits."

Stiles laughed, warmth flooding him with the amusement. "That's so sweet," he said, and watched Derek grin at his sarcasm. Stiles sobered. "Seriously, though, thanks again for the warning and keeping me in the loop afterwards."

Silence fell as they both stared out over the town spread below them as small and shiny in the sun as a toy village. The silence was comfortable, relaxed, the way their encounters had slowly become. Oddly enough, Derek was the first to break the quiet. 

"Girlfriend away?"

"Girlfriend?" He turned to gape at Derek. "What? Who?"

"The little black girl you're with a lot these days."

"Oh, my god, Savvy? Dude, word to the wise--" he glanced around theatrically and leaned close to whisper "--don't ever let her hear you call her 'little.' She might be small, but she's _sneaky_."

Derek huffed. A laugh! Stiles was pretty sure, at least, that sound was a laugh, Derek-Hale style. He settled back with a grin.

"Anyway, not my girlfriend. A good friend, though. New best friend, I guess." He swallowed at the tightness in his throat, then squashed the inevitable pang with a deep breath and a wave trying for breezy dismissiveness. "Semantics. I never thought I'd be lucky enough to click that well with two people in my life."

He saw from the corner of his eye as Derek nodded. "Yeah, good friends are hard to find."

Peter had claimed Derek had been popular in high school, before his life went to shit; for however much dependence on Peter's telling the truth there might be. Though he didn't find it hard to believe a younger Derek could've been a popular guy. But here was Derek just a few years later without a single friend, wolfy or mundane, as far as Stiles could tell. He shifted, uncomfortable with the thought he might be as close to a friend as Derek had.

Derek's jacket creaked as he shifted position and Stiles grabbed at a change of topic.

"I dunno how you can stand to wear leather in this heat."

He looked over, meaning to act judgmental, but his eyes caught on a tear in the sleeve. "Whoa! Is that a...bullet hole?" He peered at it. "Knife cut?"

Derek glanced down at his left arm. "Throwing knife. I need to get that fixed."

"Are you okay?" Stiles studied him more closely. "I mean, of course you're okay now, but was it bad?"

Derek shook his head. "Just a flesh wound. Barely touched me, no poison."

"Lucky you had the jacket on."

Derek shrugged.

"Get it fixed, huh? Guess that's cheaper than buying a new jacket every time."

Derek didn't answer. He looked tired. Stiles twitched his eyes away from Derek's flat gaze out across the valley and felt the tension in Derek's thigh close to his own, probably gathering himself to leave.

"I'm going to be here awhile." He kept his voice matter-of-fact and his eyes straight ahead, away from Derek. "If you wanted to bask in the sun for a bit. I don't have your fancy, souped-up hearing, but I'll be awake and I'll let you know if I hear anybody coming. Which is really unlikely on a Wednesday afternoon, gotta say."

He could almost hear Derek's indecision as seconds ticked by. Then Derek nodded and curled up in the shade with his back to Stiles. In a couple of minutes, his breathing evened out into a deep rhythm. Stiles amended his first impression of "tired" to "flat-out exhausted" and grimaced, then settled in for the duration. He'd been planning on a quiet hour of reading and solitude, anyway.

A few minutes later, he glanced down again at the torn leather sleeve. He'd never had much to do with leather, but he'd seen a man fix a tear once. After Mom died, Mrs. Chee from down the street watched him after school till he was old enough to stay by himself. She was older than Mom had been, but knew about grief and tears and how to distract a boy who got caught up in his own spiraling thoughts. They spent a lot of time outside when it was nice, at the park or playing ball in the backyard of her house, and researching Interesting Stuff when it was raining and his homework was done. Sometimes Scott spent the afternoon there, too, as a treat, but mostly Scott went to the employees' daycare at the hospital, where his mom could spend her breaks with him.

The excitement one day was the delivery of a new couch and chair. Red leather! So pretty and slippery! The leather on the backside of the chair, though, had a small tear, which made Mrs. Chee frown. The delivery man gave her a number to call, and the next day, a man came to the house with a little leather-mending kit. Stiles had watched the process avidly, impressed when the man fused the sides of the tear together, then smoothed it until it didn't show at all unless you knew exactly where to look. Then you could just see a faint scar, hidden in the overall grain. Mrs. Chee was satisfied, and it didn't matter, anyway, because the chair sat with its back against a wall.

He studied the tear in Derek's sleeve and felt a jolt knowing he wouldn't even have noticed it if Derek had had the chance to get it mended. Or fixed it himself? Derek might have his own leather-mending kit, given how often he got shot and knifed and punctured with arrows. Taking it in to a store to be restored regularly would have to raise questions eventually.

Shit. Derek's body didn't scar, but his jacket would. Stiles sharpened his eyes, roaming them over the back of the jacket turned toward him. He noted various small imperfections, but couldn't tell if they were the natural leather or marks of old wounds without getting a look at the lining. Bit of both, maybe. But some, he figured, were undoubtedly scars. Hell, maybe most of them.

_Lucky you had the jacket on._

No luck about it. Because it wasn't a jacket for its own sake, was it, but as close to armor as Derek could wear in everyday life without drawing way too much attention. Right? Stiles had thought wearing the jacket in all weathers was just Derek being a stupid show-off, proclaiming his bad-assitude to the world. But it was the opposite, wasn't it? Stiles banged his head back against the tree. Derek wasn't really into showing-off; not like, say, Jackson always had been. Derek was more a slink-around and keep-to-the-shadows guy.

Derek didn't wear leather to project an image, but as the best option he had for extra protection against the ever-present dangers he negotiated while trying, at the same time, not to draw undue attention. A knife, arrow, bullet--even Gerard's fucking sword--without wolfsbane on it might not kill him outright, but a wound to his leg or arm or gut could slow him down, give an enemy a better chance at him, and _that_ could be fatal. Even with quick healing, a knife lodged in his arm was more crippling than a flesh wound from his jacket deflecting the aim. At the least, he'd need to pull the knife free before healing could begin, and that pause could provide a group of hunters with the opening they needed.

The first thing Derek had done after turning Isaac, Erica, and Boyd was buy each of them an expensive leather jacket. Stiles had laughed, thinking it was like a goofy frat uniform, _Welcome to the In Kids Club, guys._ But that wasn't it at all, was it? Those jackets were Derek's attempt to protect them. Sure, the jackets attracted attention, because people that beautiful in hot leather didn't go anywhere without drawing eyes, but that was true of all four of them without leather, too. The cliched look also led to people simply labeling them and moving on, just as Stiles and Scott had dismissed the leather as silly posturing.

Isaac had given up wearing leather since joining Scott. Leather wasn't a werewolf thing; it was a manifestation of Derek's own crappy history and his PTSD. Even his Camaro, while as flashy as Jackson's Porsche, had had more than average speed and maneuverability; it wasn't just a sweet ride. Now Derek had switched to an SUV, which was heavier and powerful and didn't flip as easily in a crash.

He doubted Derek had the luxury of doing anything that wasn't based on trying to survive in a chancy world riddled with dangers most people never even glimpsed.

He looked down at Derek, curled up and dead to the world, the leather stretched across his shoulders a map of almost invisible scars he carried around with him even though his body was unflawed. This might be the first deep sleep Derek had managed since--hell, maybe since leaving Cora behind. No one to guard against danger while he slept; no ears or other senses except his own to depend on. Ever. No protection between him and the world but a flimsy leather jacket and his hypervigilance.

Stiles rested his hand on the ground just close enough for his little finger to brush against the hem of the jacket. He looked down the trail to where it disappeared into a stand of birches, then turned his head to survey the remainder of the area, alert and listening. Quiet as any other Wednesday he'd spent up here. He settled for his vigil at Derek's back, keeping watch.

\-----

On the 4th of July, he and Dad walked down to the river and watched the fireworks display staged from a barge anchored off-shore for the occasion. They were strolling together looking for a good spot to watch from when they met Melissa McCall with a blanket over her arm. She and Dad fell into a conversation that started out awkward--their kids going from joined-at-the-hip to barely knowing each other couldn't be easy to negotiate, though easier for Melissa since she knew all the reasons--but soon smoothed out with the familiarity of old friends. Then it was Stiles who felt awkward and drifted a little distance away, to give them privacy because...was Dad flirting? Holy crap, was he _watching his father flirt_? He turned decisively away because, just, no.

He shifted from foot to foot, eyes darting about, wondering if Scott were going to appear at any moment. He doubted Melissa was here alone. Scott and Isaac; Allison, too, maybe? Any of them. Then everything would become even more awkward, and painful, and he'd spend the rest of the evening torn between being glad he'd made the choice he did because of Dad's relaxed contentment nowadays, and regret and guilt at having had to reject Scott; give up Scott as part of his life.

He still viscerally felt like he'd abandoned Scott to deal with his dangerous new world by himself even though he knew, logically, it wasn't true.

Then Dad joined him, his smile morphing into an amused look at him like he could tell he'd messed with Stiles' head. Stiles took the chance, while flailing at him, to move them a good distance away so they could avoid any of the werewolf contingent who might be hanging in Melissa's vicinity.

He didn't bother glancing around to see if he could glimpse Derek. He couldn't imagine a crowd of strangers, deafening bangs, and overbright flashes of light would be anything but the definition of torment to Derek, putting him on a knife's edge of anxiety.

\-----

A couple of weeks later, he was working at the computer desk in the library, testing the redesigned pages for the online catalog, when he felt a presence and glanced up at Derek. As his mouth turned up in a spontaneous smile, he wondered, reeling mentally, when warmth at seeing Derek had banished chill and distance so completely they were a fading memory.

He blinked the errant thought away. "Hi. Early-birding today, huh?" He grinned at Derek's raised eyebrows. "Don't usually see you till closer to noon."

Derek half-smiled, but his eyes were dragged down at the corners with tiredness. Stiles felt a prickle of gooseflesh on his arms as Derek spoke in a low voice.

"You have a break around now, right? Can we talk?"

Stiles glanced at the clock on the wall. "Yeah, sure. Give me five minutes?"

"I'll be in the courtyard."

He watched Derek's straight back as he walked away, the tension in his squared shoulders, then shook himself and closed the files. He stopped in the break room to grab his soda and banana from the fridge, then headed outside. Derek was sitting on the bench farthest from the door, in the most shaded, isolated spot. Stiles jogged over to him.

He slid onto the bench and popped the tab on his can. He tried to keep his voice casual although his arms were still prickling. "Something up?"

"I know you don't want to know anything that's going on, but--" Derek frowned at him as though he were a difficult puzzle.

Stiles narrowed his eyes and spoke slowly. "Okay. But--?"

Derek sighed out a deep breath. "But you might need to think about telling your dad about...everything." He waved a hand. "Soon."

 _Crap._ Stiles put the can down on the bench behind him with precise care, ignoring the shake in his hands, then turned back to face Derek. "He's in danger?"

"Not yet, I don't think. Not at all if we get it handled quickly. But--"

He cut Derek off with the sharpness of a cold blade. "What is it?"

"Rogues. There were two; one's dead. They killed a homeless man, left his body clawed up near the abandoned warehouses off Fourth."

"Shit. Another 'animal attack,' then, right?" Stiles ran a hand through his hair, trying to contain the fizz of adrenaline building in his bloodstream.

Dad had been working later and looking more harried the last few days. He hadn't said anything at home, though, except about needing to go into the office--and Stiles, of course, hadn't asked. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

He took a breath and tried to calm his pounding heart. "So these are rogue...what, wolves?"

Derek nodded.

"So they're, like, omegas? Why would they kill somebody who wouldn't even have anything worth stealing? I thought omegas tried to keep a low profile for, you know, their own protection?"

"They're omegas, but not normal ones. They're feral."

"Feral. What does that even mean for--" he dropped his voice even though he was pretty sure no one was anywhere near hearing distance of them "--wolves?"

"Psychopaths. If they were human, that's what they'd be. They kill because they can and because it's a game to them. They chased the guy for awhile, tired him the way actual wolves do in the bush, before going in for the kill. I followed a trail of stuff he'd dropped as he tried to escape from them."

"And my dad?"

Derek shrugged. "I get the sense he's been increasingly suspicious of the animal attacks for awhile. I saw him searching the area out from the murder in a widening circle."

"Among all those empty warehouses." He heard the flatness of his own voice. "He wasn't alone, though, right?"

"No. But he does--"

"--go out in his cruiser alone a lot of the time. _Shit._ "

He stood up and paced, fighting the tide of anxiety that was making it hard to breathe. He flexed his fingers as the shaking got worse. "Okay. Okay." He stopped and stared down at Derek, who looked up to meet his eyes. "One dead, one left. Are you working with Scott to deal with this guy?"

Derek voice was dry as desert sand. "Scott's got his group trying to capture him alive. He doesn't want to kill him without first seeing if he can be talked down. Reasoned with."

Stiles dropped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What about the Argents?"

"Out of town. On vacation somewhere." Derek stood up and Stiles lifted his head to meet his eyes. "Don't panic yet. I'm hoping to find him soon. It's just...this guy's smart and unpredictable, and he knows I'm after him now. And I've seen your father poking around. If he gets too close, he'll probably be safer knowing what's going on. Just keep your phone close; I'll let you know."

Derek pulled his right hand out of his jacket pocket and held it out. "And if it comes to that, you can give him these."

Stiles held out his hand, gut churning as Derek dropped several bullets into it, cupping his own hand to hide the transfer. Stiles closed his fingers on the cold, hard metal and shoved his hand into his pants' pocket.

Derek squeezed his shoulder, warm and firm, then strode across the courtyard and disappeared around the shadowed corner of the building. 

"No panicking. Sure thing. I'll get right on that."

Fucking hell.

He dumped his pop can and uneaten banana in the trash as he headed inside to complete his shift, and plugged his phone in to charge as soon as he was inside. Then he immediately unplugged it to take it into the washroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and wrapped the five bullets in a paper towel to stow them in his backpack. He sat a few minutes in a stall getting his breathing and heartbeat under control. He had to be ready. He had to keep it together. Figure out what to say if Derek called, how best to convince Dad. Because if Derek called...it would be urgent.

He was fucking relieved Derek was here. He didn't believe for a second a psychopath of any kind could be talked into reforming his evil ways, but while human psychopaths could be locked up to keep them from hurting more people, you couldn't imprison a werewolf. Well, obviously you could if you caught one, or try, anyway; a modern penitentiary might even be able to keep one contained for awhile. But chains and prison transfer vehicles and courtrooms were not werewolf proof, and if a werewolf didn't give a shit about anything but himself, he'd be out in no time, leaving behind more human damage and likely ripping apart the secrecy veiling the supernatural underworld. Cameras were everywhere these days, too, poised to record shifts that couldn't be explained away as faulty human perception, to capture claws and fangs and laser eyes in action.

He finished his shift somehow and swung by the gas station on his way home to top up the Jeep; if he had to track Dad down, he didn't want to worry about running out of gas. He turned on the police scanner at home for the first time in nearly a year and chewed his fingernails to the quick, one after another, as he paced and listened. Everything sounded like ordinary business for a placid summer weekday, which had a surreal quality to it given his re-immersion into the supernatural underbelly of good old Beacon Hills.

He had everything stowed away and a couple of frozen dinners ready to be zapped in the microwave when Dad came home at his regular time. Stiles had restricted himself to calling the station only once to make sure Dad wasn't going to be late. For any reason at all. Like being out investigating the death of a man probably nobody but the police would even notice was gone, a murder that would barely touch the town's collective awareness. Dad would care, though, dammit. Just as he'd be curious about--suspicious of--yet another clawed corpse in his jurisdiction.

Dad stayed home that evening, though, after dinner. He spread some papers on the kitchen table, including a map he bent over, tracing his finger over various areas as Stiles tried not to crane for looks and bit his tongue hard enough to hurt on questions he didn't dare ask. Dad willingly enough put the papers away, however, to watch a game with him on TV after the kitchen was cleaned up.

It would've been a cool, fun evening if only he hadn't felt trapped again in the old claustrophobic web of lies and too much/not enough knowledge.

He called in sick to the library the next day, which wasn't even a total lie after a night of fitful dozing punctuated with jerking awake from disturbing dreams. He thought he heard a wolf howl once, but when he blinked fully awake and listened intently, the only sound in the quiet was the distant hoot of an owl, and he couldn't be sure if he'd dreamed the wolf. That didn't stop him from getting up and listening at Dad's bedroom door, clutching his phone, before going back to his disaster of a bed.

Savvy was away for a couple of weeks visiting her grandparents on their farm, which was a relief, really. She would've provided distraction, but there'd have also been a good chance she'd've noticed how twitchy he was; he was glad he didn't have to lie to her. Or try to lie to her. She'd know he was lying, just as Dad always had. She just wouldn't know about what, or why, and a tendril of chill would wind between them because that was freaking inevitable. He'd learned that lesson fucking well enough.

By the time he was pacing circles in his bedroom that evening, listening to the muted sound of water down the hall as Dad showered, he was itching to call someone, _anyone_ , for an update. Derek, most obviously: but he was afraid the phone might betray Derek's position or something, or distract him at the wrong moment. Derek might be sneaking up on the feral wolf _right this moment_ , for all Stiles knew. Scott, Isaac, Lydia: but he didn't know where any of them were, either. They might be out searching, too, or in some precarious position an inopportune call could unbalance that would end with them getting hurt.

This hellish uncertainty was what Dad must've felt every time he suspected Stiles was mixed up in something, yet couldn't do anything but stumble around in a fog, knowing there was danger, but not how to avoid it or what he could do to help.

When his phone rang in his hand, he jerked so hard he almost dropped it, then fumbled it with stiff fingers, glancing at the screen before putting it to his ear.

"Derek. What's happening?"

"It's done."

Stiles sank down onto his bed, and switched his phone to his other hand, rubbing his sweaty palm on his pants. "Holy shit. Okay. So, no need to tell Dad?"

"No. It's safe."

"Good. That's good. I--" He licked his lips and packed all the relief flooding him into one quiet word: "Thanks."

Derek's own voice sounded like warmth filtered through exhaustion. "Sure. I know what it's like to worry. About family."

It felt oddly intimate to hear Derek talk about family, when _family_ was such a minefield of horrific associations for him.

"You sound wrecked, dude." He spoke without thinking, his mind as limp as his body in the aftermath as he looked forward to nothing but hours of sleep, with Dad safe down the hall and the night free of dangers.... Oh, shit. His voice hitched. "I, uh, I hope you'll be able to get some sleep now."

"Right. Bye, Stiles."

"Night, Derek."

Fuck. He dropped the phone onto his bedside table and summoned the energy to get up and undress. Killing two feral rogues made the town safe, but that didn't mean a lone wolf would be able to sleep any easier.

\-----

He and Derek didn't make a point of avoiding each other on their random sightings now. If they were alone, they'd usually pause at least long enough to exchange a few words. They even met at the barber shop one day. Stiles was reaching for the door to go in when it pushed open and Derek appeared on his way out. They both froze, staring at each other, Derek looking as startled as Stiles felt. Because even after all this time and the multitude of places their paths had intersected, the door of the freaking barber shop was just entirely over to the farcical.

"It's official. My life is a dream being spun by the mind of a Dali surrealist."

"Stiles." Derek was as deadpan as ever, though the corner of his mouth twitched upwards just a fraction.

"Love the cool new you with the cool new do!" Stiles called after him, deliberately loud, and grinned at the finger Derek gave him over his shoulder without looking back. He headed inside for a trim, laughing. This shit would never have happened if Stiles were still buzzing his own hair.

He only consciously realized the shift in their interactions had become a two-way street when Derek stopped beside his table in Denny's with a tray of his own one August morning and took the chair opposite him when Stiles nodded to it.

"Our non-love non-affair is now also apparently non-secret," he said when he'd swallowed his mouthful of delicious, syrupy pancake, and Derek snorted into his coffee mug.

They talked about books a lot. It was decidedly weird not to be able to talk about the latest summer blockbuster or where TV shows fell on their personal crap-or-hit meter, but Derek didn't do cinemas (excessive volume) and didn't have a TV.

"You're an alien, dude. Hey, speaking of aliens in exile, did you ever see _Roswell_?"

Stiles' pop culture soul died a little when he pointed out Derek could watch shows and movies on his computer, and Derek said he still didn't have one. Said it _nonchalantly_ , as though it didn't matter in the least that he was living in a technological stone age! By choice!

But books were a good topic, given how much Derek read (Stiles pointed out the wonders of ebooks, in his ongoing, subtle--he could be _extremely_ subtle, thank you!--campaign to convince Derek of the value of owning a computer).

Travel was another topic Stiles favored because, while he hadn't done much yet, he liked flinging himself into meticulous planning of future road trips. Derek had crossed the country twice by car. Unfortunately, the first time, he and his sister had been terrified, grieving wrecks fleeing east looking for safety and a place to heal; and the second time, Derek had been intent only on getting back across the country as quickly as possible to find out why she'd stopped communicating with him. So that was kind of a bust of a subject, though Derek didn't seem to mind Stiles outlining his various potential routes and must-see stops, and even occasionally offered an opinion when Stiles poked him about where he'd like to go on a road trip.

You could tell a lot about a person from their hypothetical road trip map. Savvy's route zigzagged between as many big, glittery cities as she could fit in. Her dream list of places to visit was filled with museums, art galleries, revolving restaurants at the top of soaring needles, the hills and valleys of skyscrapers made of glass. He had a pretty good idea Derek's dream map, however, would sketch a route that skirted as many cities and larger towns as he could, taking him to the Rockies and the Grand Canyon, to redwood forests and glaciers and maybe, he'd gathered a hint, the freedom of a boat skimming across miles of empty water.

His own was an amalgam of the two; a hybrid, like his life. Some time spent enjoying the razz and energy of a city interspersed with absorbing the quiet solitude of the wilderness sounded ideal. It wasn't that he was indecisive or confused, he thought wryly; he just liked both.

With books a major topic for them, a lot of his brief talks with Derek were at the library, except those that happened in a coffee shop, diner, grocery store, strip mall parking lot, gas station, Random Place X, or while running in the Preserve. Derek joined Stiles for part of his runs with semi-regularity these days, challenging him to bursts of extra speed and tossing a grin over his shoulder when he powered away on his stupid werewolf legs.

Though his appreciation of the view as Derek raced ahead of him was becoming a more open, if disconcerting, thing. Appreciating Derek's physical appeal wasn't new to him, but openly acknowledging it cracked a door in his head he kept eyeing speculatively, edging incrementally closer to crossing the threshold. And that way might lie danger--or it might get the fucking door slammed shut in his face and Derek back to avoiding him at all costs. The most painful acknowledgment was admitting he'd probably actually miss the closed-off, difficult bastard if Derek cut him out of his life.

He'd gotten to the point where he enjoyed having Derek as a strange, peripheral part of his (almost) daily life, where both "strange" and "peripheral" were transmuting into "normal" and "regular."

\-----

The abnormality of any life involving Derek Hale crashed back into his awareness at the end of August. He'd finished his run early to avoid the worst heat and was stopped at the turning onto the main road into town from the Preserve, thinking about the last summer of his high school years winding down, when he caught movement in the trees opposite. He peered across the road, eyes sharpening on a dark, lurching figure almost indistinguishable among the shadows.

"Holy shit!"

He pulled on the parking brake and scrambled out of the Jeep, then ran across the empty road. Derek reared back from him, stumbling, and Stiles flung a hand out to catch his elbow.

"Derek, it's me! What the hell happened?"

"Stiles." Derek stared at him, eyes blinking like he was trying to clear his vision. He was swaying alarmingly and Stiles tightened his grip.

"What the hell? What-- Are you hurt?"

Derek swallowed with obvious painfulness. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, right, that's obvious."

He was scanning Derek, taking in the bloody white T-shirt, eyes homing in on a long tear in the cloth over Derek's left side. Bullet, claw, knife? He couldn't tell, but Derek looked in bad shape for just one visible wound. He reached to try to see better, but Derek twisted away, which obviously was a bad idea since he would've fallen if he hadn't staggered into a tree. Derek grunted as he hit the tree; Stiles' stomach clenched at the sound.

"Let me see, dammit." He ignored Derek's attempt to fend him off and pulled the T-shirt up. "Crap."

He could see the ominous black marks spidering out from the wound, faint, but darkening even as he watched.

"Wolfsbane?"

Derek nodded, then made another attempt to push himself upright and Stiles away. "Get away. I'll be okay."

"I'm not leaving you here alone! Who did this?"

Derek's voice was strained. "Hunters. Heard about the feral wolves. With Argent still away--"

Stiles nodded. The Argents enjoyed long summer vacations. He glanced around the trees warily, but couldn't see any sign of pursuers. That didn't mean they weren't there, though, or about to arrive. He grabbed Derek's right arm.

"Let's get out of here."

"No, just go before somebody sees you. You don't want to be involved in any of this."

He stared at Derek. It was true, he didn't want to be involved in any of the supernatural shit going down; didn't even want to know about it. But he wasn't leaving Derek here alone. He searched the trees again for a sign of danger and took a deep breath.

"You need help. What about Deaton? I can call him." He dug his fingers into his pocket for his phone.

Derek shook his head; his voice was tight. "Wouldn't trust him to tell me the time of day."

Stiles winced. That was harsh. Not entirely unwarranted, though, he had to admit. Deaton had never exactly been a fan of Derek's that Stiles had ever seen.

He was more reluctant to make the next offer, but forced himself. "Scott? Or Isaac? I could call--"

Derek was shaking his head again. Stubborn asshole. "Not my pack."

Derek pushed away from Stiles, propelling himself to another tree closer to the road. He hunched over in a lean against the tree, hand clutching his side, gasping for breath. When he lifted his head, his face was grey and sweaty. He fixed glassy eyes on the next tree in line. Stiles' heart thumped its own cutting rhythm as he watched.

"For fuck's sake, you can't do this alone." Mind made up, he pushed up against Derek's uninjured side and pulled Derek's right arm over his shoulder. "Just where the hell are you headed?"

"House. Supplies there."

Stiles glared at him and didn't even try to rein in the scathing in his voice. "Your old house in the Preserve? Are you nuts? You'll never make it all that way!"

Either the hunters would catch up with him first or he'd collapse and die in agony alone. Either option was...unacceptable.

Stiles got them across the road in a lurch, but Derek's strength was giving out and he was a damned heavy mass of muscle. Derek fell to one knee against the side of the Jeep, then collapsed onto his butt and Stiles turned, panting, to scan the trees opposite them again. Still no sign of movement. When he looked down, Derek was pushing himself away from the Jeep. His eyes were screwed shut, but his face looked all too familiarly determined.

"Don't need help. Go before someone sees you."

He crouched beside Derek, grabbing him to stop his stupid attempt to crawl off alone. "Numbskull."

He tensed his muscles to heave Derek up and into the Jeep, but froze at the sound of tires behind him on the road.

"Too late," he said, voice harsh in a warning to Derek.

He turned his head, poised for--something; he had no notion what. He didn't have any kind of weapon. Even his bat was out of reach in the back of the Jeep, buried under junk after all these months. "Hunters" meant more than one and they'd be armed to the teeth.

When he saw the car was a cruiser, his first reaction was relief. Then he saw the number painted on the side and his heart plummeted into his shoes.

"Crap, crap, crap."

"Stiles?"

"Dad." He looked up at his father haloed by the sun, looking as tall and magnificent as he had when Stiles had been a kid. He felt a lump in his throat because this was it, the long-dreaded day was here despite all his efforts to keep it away, and everything in both their lives was about to change irrevocably.

Derek made a last attempt to get up, then collapsed into the dirt with a pained grunt.

"What the hell?" Dad moved fast, coming to them and kneeling down on Derek's other side. He sounded incredulous. "Is that a bullet wound? What happened?"

He turned demanding eyes on Stiles, who blinked the moisture out of his own and leaned forward to grab Dad's arm in a fierce grip. He looked straight into Dad's eyes and spoke with all the intensity he had in him.

"Dad, I need you to trust me. I'll tell you everything, but I just need you to trust me right now."

Dad stared at him a moment, then reached for his radio. "Did you call 911? I'll call this in, then you can tell me exactly what happened."

He tightened his grip on Dad's arm, holding him in place. "No. No ambulance. No back up. _Please._ Trust me. Give me ten minutes, then I'll tell you everything and you can decide what you need to do then."

Dad was frowning at him, eyes flicking between him and Derek, curled in the dirt between them.

"Ten minutes. Just please trust me for ten minutes." He couldn't keep the waver entirely out of his voice, but he kept his gaze as steady as he could. He'd earned Dad's trust this time; at least, he hoped he had by now.

Dad's voice dropped to a kinder tone, puzzlement underlying his frown. "He needs an ambulance, son. He's been shot."

Stiles shook his head and dropped his hand. A short, bitter laugh escaped him before he clamped his lips together. "Doctors can't help him. But I can. Ten minutes max. _Please_ , Dad."

He scrambled to his feet before Dad could protest again and ran to the other side of the Jeep. At least with the cruiser parked on the shoulder, shielding them, they didn't have to worry about the hunters approaching; they'd keep a good distance. He just hoped none of Dad's deputies happened along in the meantime to complicate matters. They were way too exposed here on the side of the road, even if it wasn't a busy road mid-afternoon on a Thursday.

He opened the side door and grabbed his backpack, unzipping it as he hurried back to sink down beside Derek, who was making another wobbly attempt to get to his feet. He'd only managed to get one knee under himself and lost his grip on the door as Stiles unceremoniously shoved him back down. Stiles fished the brown paper bag out of the bottom of the side pocket on the pack, pulled it open, extricated the baggie, opened it, and unrolled the paper towel from around the bullets.

Dad drew in a breath. "Stiles--"

Stiles glanced at him, speaking with firm desperation. "Ten minutes." He turned to Derek, holding up one of the bullets. "These'll work, right? Derek! The ones you gave me?"

Derek lifted his head, took a moment to focus on the bullet, then nodded. He slumped back down.

"Okay. Just hang on."

He delved back into his pack and pulled out the book of matches and small brass plate. He set the plate on the ground and wrestled the tip of the bullet casing off with his fingers.

"Is that your mother's incense burning dish? Why are you carrying that around?"

He flicked his eyes up at Dad. "Hey, you know, I might've only made it through a couple of the Cubs' meetings--" the Cubs and Scouts programs were not designed with a hyperactive young Stiles Stilinski in mind "--but I got the message all right. Be prepared, Dad; you never know when something might come in handy." Especially in his former life, and he'd never gotten around to putting the plate away again. He liked keeping something of Mom's with him all the time.

He tipped the contents of the bullet onto the etched brass, struck a match, and set it to the little mound of wolfsbane before Dad, with a startled protest, could stop him. Dad flinched when the wolfsbane flared.

"Sorry, sorry. Should've warned you. It's okay." Stiles glanced up at Dad before turning to Derek.

He shoved Derek's blood-soaked T-shirt out of the way and heard Dad gasp at the black lines that were now a thick web radiating across Derek's abdomen, tendrils reaching for his heart.

"What the hell--"

"Soon. I promise."

He brushed the burned wolfsbane into a pile, then scraped it directly onto the ugly, gaping wound. He drew in a sharp breath, then plunged his thumb into the middle of the bullet hole and ground the wolfsbane in as hard as he could. Derek bit off a scream and convulsed in agony, every visible muscle contorting as his back arched and fists clenched.

"Jesus Christ, Stiles!" Dad sounded frantic.

Stiles reached for Dad's arm, then noticed the blood on his hand and jerked it back. He wiped it against his thigh, eyes flickering between Derek writhing on the ground and Dad's shocked face. "Just another minute. It's a cure, Dad." He sighed. "This is why the hospital couldn't have helped him."

He mostly watched Dad as Dad watched the tendrils fade and retreat, shrinking back to the wound, then disappearing as the bullet hole itself shrank. He saw Dad swallow as Derek's rigid muscles relaxed and he lay still for a minute in the dirt, panting harshly before getting his breathing under control. Stiles carefully wiped the plate clean on the knee of his jeans and packed it and the matches away with shaking hands. After a moment, he wrapped the remaining bullets, too, and tucked them away.

When Derek pushed to his feet a few moments later, tattered, bloody shirt covering his unmarked abdomen, Stiles also stood up, hefting the pack. Derek rested one hand against the hood of the Jeep, but he was alert and clear-eyed now. He stood still, turning his head slowly in a 180-degree circle, eyes probing and nostrils flaring.

"We should go." Stiles looked nervously to the woods across the road.

Dad held up a hand, then spoke into his radio. "Darlanne."

"Yes, Sheriff?"

"I'm taking a break with my son. Consider me off the grid until I get back in touch, but call if you need me for anything."

"Yes, sir."

He switched the radio off and crossed his arms, looking back and forth between them. He lifted an eyebrow in the silence.

Stiles twitched. "We really should get going."

"And why is that?" Dad was three-quarters Sheriff as he fixed a hard eye on him.

"Because the people who shot Derek might come along any moment?"

Derek shook his head, coming down off alert. "They're gone for now."

Dad's flinty look switched to Derek. "How do you know that?"

"Dad, I promised I'd tell you everything. Can we just move this meeting someplace less, uh, exposed? More private? Like maybe our house? Or Derek's?" He gestured to the woods behind them.

He saw Derek give a minute shake of his head and realized the folly of taking Dad to an isolated house miles from help, a hunter's wet dream, and added quickly, "Or our house. Our place would be best, right? We can sit down, get something to eat--anyone else starving?--and we'll fill you in. Derek's coming with us. Right, Derek?"

Dad said, "Oh, Derek is definitely coming with us."

Derek's shoulders tightened, but he nodded.

"Derek will ride with me. Stiles, you go first. I'll be right behind you."

Dad bent and swept up the cartridge pieces Stiles had abandoned, then escorted Derek to the cruiser. Stiles climbed into the Jeep and dumped his pack on the seat beside him, watching with a hint of hysterical amusement as Dad clearly dithered for a moment before ushering Derek into the front seat rather than stashing him in the back behind bars.

He drove home as quickly as he dared with Dad's cruiser glued to his rear bumper. He wanted Dad safe at home, illusory as the safety might be. Four stout walls and a roof; lock the doors, close the drapes, and keep Dad safe because soon Dad was going to have the esoteric knowledge that meant he'd never be safe again. The walls he'd worked so hard to build around Dad were about to tumble down like kids' blocks.

_And all the king's horses and all the king's men  
Couldn't put Humpty together again._

Dad came in with Derek behind him as Stiles was closing the curtains in the living room. Dad lifted an eyebrow at him, then directed them all into the kitchen. Stiles detoured to lock the front door, then hurried into the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of cola from the fridge--if ever he needed a sugar hit, it was now--and one for Derek, and tried to offer Dad coffee.

"Sit."

He sat. He opened his mouth, but Dad turned to Derek, brows lowered and a thoughtful look on his face.

"You're entirely healed."

Derek nodded.

"He does that. It's a--special gift. He's special."

Dad ignored him, keeping his focus on Derek. "Care to tell me how that happened? People don't just instantly heal from bullet wounds, not even minor ones. And that wasn't a minor injury."

"A special snowflake."

"Stiles." Dad looked at him.

Stiles shrugged. "I'm just saying."

Dad switched his laser gaze fully to him. "Fine, son. This truth you promised me. Go ahead. I'm listening."

"Um. Right. See, it's like this." He couldn't keep still. He stood, paced around the table. He paused to snatch up his Coke. "It's, uh, really complicated."

He grimaced at Derek from behind Dad's back, trying to convey via facial contortions that Derek should stop being a useless lump and _help_. Derek gave him a stony look back; which is to say, he never changed expression at all.

Dad leaned back in his chair and pinned his eyes on Derek. "Okay, let's simplify things. What was in that bullet that Stiles...healed you with?"

"Ground blue monkshood."

Dad blinked. "A flower? He healed you with a ground-up flower?"

"The poison is the cure," Stiles said helpfully.

Derek gave him a dirty look before turning back to Dad, resuming his usual imitation of a statue. "The bullet I was shot with had monkshood in it, and Stiles is right. The same poison when burned acts as a cure."

"Really." Dad could out-flat even Derek in tone of voice.

"Monkshood, also known as aconite." Stiles was still circling the table. "Of the genus _Aconitum_ , which has several poisonous varieties. Particularly _Aconitum Lycoctonum_ , which is more commonly known as--"

Derek side-eyed him as Stiles slid into his chair and cocked his head at him, leaving it hanging.

"Wolfsbane." Derek directed the quiet word at Dad.

"Wolfsbane." Dad was in interrogator mode now, expressionless as a brick wall.

"Wolfsbane." Stiles chewed at the lip of his old-style Coke bottle. "You know, funny thing, buttercups are also in the aconite family. Who'd ever think of buttercups as dangerous? A nuisance in the lawn, sure, but not life-threatening. So they're sort of like the Chihuahuas of the wolf world."

Dad ignored him with the ease of almost eighteen years' practice, but Derek sighed. "Chihuahuas aren't wolves."

Stiles gave him his own version of a flat look. "And buttercups aren't wolfsbane. What's your point?"

"All right." Dad split a warning look between both of them before turning back to Derek. "Who shot you? And why? Also: why did you give my son bullets with wolfsbane in them?"

"Oh, crap." Stiles folded his arms on the table and hid his face in them. Trust Dad not to have missed that tidbit in the heat of the moment.

He sat up. "Okay, I'm just going to spit it out." He opened and shut his mouth a couple of times under the combined intense stares of both Derek and Dad. "Um."

Derek rolled his eyes, then looked square at Dad. "Hunters shot me. They found me instead of who they were looking for, but they--"

"--weren't discriminatory. They did not discriminate. Discrimination when faced with special people like Derek isn't in their vocabulary. They'll shoot any they come across. Indiscriminately."

Derek scowled at him. "You're not helping. And stop using idiotic euphemisms like 'special'."

All his pent-up fury surged to the surface. "I know I'm not helping. I don't want to help! I never wanted to have to tell him at all. You know that!"

Derek's own stone face finally broke. His voice was a low growl. "I told you to fucking leave me before anybody saw you."

"Yes!" He flung his hands up in the air. "You did. What a pity I didn't abandon you to uselessly die alone! Then everything would be peachy keen now!"

In the following silence, Stiles heard from behind his closed eyes as Dad got up, the clink of a bottle, the offer of a whiskey that Derek, voice back to flawless politeness, declined. Dad sat back down.

Stiles opened his eyes. He met Dad's thoughtful gaze and managed a half-smile. "I can't believe I just said 'peachy keen'."

Dad, bless him, chuckled. And waited, patient as he'd always been with Stiles, all of Stiles' life.

"He's a werewolf, Dad." He gestured at Derek. "The supernatural is real. Wolfsbane is particularly deadly to werewolves. People make careers out of hunting supernatural creatures and use weapons designed for that purpose. These hunters came to town looking for a pair of bad werewolves that were here awhile ago, but found Derek instead. So they shot him, because that's what hunters do. The bad hunters, at least."

Dad's head was tilted, eyes steady on his, as warm and nonjudgmental as always. Dad's fingers tightening around the glass on the table was his only visible reaction.

"He gave me the bullets to give to you back when the bad wolves were in town. The homeless man who was killed?"

Dad nodded slowly, obviously putting together a lot of the puzzle pieces in his head.

"Derek thought it might become more dangerous for you not to know what you were investigating, so he gave me the bullets so you could protect yourself, if it became necessary. But he took care of the problem, so I didn't have to tell you then."

In the stretched silence that followed, Dad took another drink from his glass, then went into the living room. Derek glanced at him and Stiles shrugged. He could hear Dad on the phone asking Darlanne how things were going, then telling her he was taking the rest of the day off and he'd be in tomorrow morning, but to call him if there were any emergencies. He came back into the kitchen and sat down, looking between them.

Silence was not golden. Not this silence.

"I'm hungry." Which happened to be true. "We should order pizza. Derek can stay. Werewolves don't actually eat raw bunny rabbit; that's a vicious lie. Or so they claim. Hey, Dad, do you want observable proof of what we've told you? Derek can show you. Go ahead and show him, Derek."

"Show me? What?"

Derek shot Stiles an annoyed look, then turned back to Dad. Dad started when Derek flashed electric blue eyes at him.

"Aren't those rad? They're, like, the most neon blue eyes ever! Werewolf eyes are why you couldn't get a good mug shot of him. They flare in camera lights."

"Huh." Dad studied Derek speculatively.

"He's got fangs and claws that go with the eyes. Are you ready, Dad?" He bumped Derek's arm. "Go on, show him."

Derek made a point of moving his arm out of Stiles' reach, but then he shifted into the eyes, fangs, claws, and hairy-sideburns look. Dad leaned back in his chair away from Derek, but it was only seconds before Stiles' could see Dad's curious mind, so like Stiles' own, kick into gear and Dad leaned closer.

"He's only half a creature, though. He's also a person. Mostly a person, actually." Exhaustion was settling over him like a lead-lined cloak, but it seemed crucial to point that out, to make sure Dad understood. Dad went on studying Derek, but Derek let the shift fade away and turned to stare at Stiles, who met his eyes with a level look.

They ate pizza sitting around the kitchen table. Dad asked Derek questions. He wanted to know about the hunters, how much danger they were, what to do about them.

Stiles swallowed and said, "Somebody needs to make them behave themselves and go away."

Which brought Chris Argent into the discussion. Stiles figured the Argents would be back soon since school was starting next week and Allison would probably like a few days to settle in beforehand. Deaton was brought up, too. Dad had known him for years; maybe Dad would even be able to get some straight answers out of Deaton. If that were even possible....

They offered Derek their couch for the night, but he said he'd be fine.

"If I had ten bucks for every time you say you're fine, I could've gotten four new tires for my Jeep by now rather than just rotating them." He frowned at Derek, who snorted. Typical.

After Derek was gone, he and Dad sat quietly in the living room.

"So," Dad said eventually, "all the secrets and lies these past two years have been about this werewolf business."

Stiles nodded. "But not this last year. I mean, I haven't been involved in anything new you don't know about now. Okay, other than, well, a couple--or so--nights in Jungle with fake ID, and a few completely ordinary and harmless seventeen-year-old guy things--"

"Right." Dad cut him off, looking half-freaked and half-amused at the idea of hearing more of Stiles' motormouth confessions.

"Right. You were a seventeen-year-old guy once yourself, you know about that stuff." Stiles grinned at the thought, which, despite the family picture albums, always seemed like a fantasy, but he was relieved to get off that track. Because the next thing that came out of his mouth might be a terrible, horrible, no-good rundown of his sexual explorations with Savvy and her gymnast friend and the high-jump star and the couple of hand-jobs with that guy from Brett's Debate Club team, and he wasn't sure either he or Dad would ever be able to bleach that memory out of their heads.

"So, yeah, no lies this past year, Dad. Savvy doesn't know anything at all about that other world. She hasn't even met Derek."

Which led to Scott, and specifically the sudden absence of Scott in his life almost a year ago, and Lydia, and more revelations. It was like drinking a long, cool cleanser to finally clear up that whole matter of Jackson and the restraining order, possibly the low point of his and Dad's interactions.

On his way upstairs later, when they were talked out for the day and he was limp with emotional exhaustion, he paused. "I did want to tell you, you know. A lot of times. But sometimes knowing stuff makes you a target when not knowing can keep you safe. Other times, half-knowledge is more dangerous than none. Maybe I was wrong to keep information from you, but--" he shrugged, helpless in the face of Dad's steady gaze "--I just wanted to protect you. I was ready to tell you when Derek said it might be time, when the feral wolves were running around clawing people."

Dad came to him and folded him in a hug. He clutched Dad's broad shoulders and buried his face in his neck and absorbed his scent and warmth and familiarity.

"It's never been your job to protect me." Dad murmured the words into his ear, then kissed his cheek. "I love you."

"Me, too." He squeezed Dad's shoulders a last time and went up to his room.

Later, lying on his bed, he texted Derek: _you should've stayed here tonight. at least you could've slept without keeping one eye open. and if you say you're "fine," I'll eviscerate you myself._

Half an hour later, Derek replied: _You and your dad had a lot to talk about._

He fired back: _you should stop trying to be a hero by putting everybody else first, it's not a good look on you._

He stared at the words for awhile, but, in the end, he erased them without sending and went to sleep.

\-----

His life should've been easier after that, and in many ways it was--in all the ways that counted with Dad, for instance--but in other ways, it just became more complicated.

"I need to let Scott know Dad's now in on the secrets and that he can go directly to Dad, if crap comes up and it might help." Stiles chewed on his juice-box straw, staring sightlessly across the library's courtyard from his and Derek's isolated, shadowed bench in the far corner.

Derek, a warm, familiar bulk next to him, nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. Stiles turned fully to him.

"How come you always say 'Scott and his group,' never 'his pack'? Are they, like, not a pack?"

"They're a pack. At least Isaac is. I don't know about the others."

"So two's big enough to count as a pack?"

Derek nodded. "Numbers don't matter; it's the bonds between the alpha and any betas around. Isaac's allegiance is to Scott and Scott's accepted him."

"So why 'group' and not 'pack'?" Derek's phrasing had caught his attention from the start.

Derek's eyes were roaming around the sun-drenched courtyard beyond their shaded refuge, as alert as he always was in public. "You didn't want anything to do with wolf matters, no reminders, so--" He shifted. "Anyway, neutral language is safer in public in case anybody overhears."

Stiles stared at Derek's profile before looking down thoughtfully at his juice box. He found it easier to believe than he'd've ever thought possible a couple of years ago that Derek had censored his word choices to help ease Stiles' self-exile from the supernatural.

"I'm back to living in two worlds. No more lies or secrets with Dad, but my new friends don't know anything about it, and I don't want them to. They're happy living their perfectly ordinary lives, making college plans and all that. Now I could maybe get close to Scott again, and Lydia; I've missed them so damned much. But I don't want to lose Savvy, either; we just clicked when we met, you know? Like Scott and I did when we were little. But I'll be lying to her all the time now, if I do. Or even if I don't get back with Scott, I guess." He swallowed. "This is what life's always been like for you, hasn't it? Always needing to hide, keep secrets. Lie to people you like."

He'd come to realize just how much of a luxury the past year had been, living in just one world, never having to lie to anyone he cared about.

After a silence, Derek spoke quietly. "It helps to have even one person you don't have to be on guard with all the time."

As they went back inside, Derek to get his latest batch of books and Stiles to finish his shift, it hit him that he'd been Derek's one person this past year, or as close to it as Derek had in his alienation from Scott and the other wolves in town.

Scott had never been entirely alone. He'd had Stiles himself at his side from the beginning, then Allison, when she found out, and their growing circle of friends; plus Deaton, he supposed, watching over Scott before they'd even known Deaton was more than just a vet and Scott's boss. Now even Chris Argent was a kind of ally of Scott's, given Allison's steady refusal to step away from Scott.

And all Derek had was Stiles. Jeez. Fuck Derek's life.

\-----

He sent Derek a text that evening: _you can go to dad any time now, you know, just to talk or whatever. he's a good listener._

He didn't expect an answer. He suspected Derek wouldn't even know what to do with the idea of going openly to another human being just to talk, no life-or-death reason.

At dinner with Dad the night before school started, he said, "You still have questions about werewolves and all that, right? This whole supernatural world hanging out alongside our own?"

Dad looked up, eyes bright with the curiosity that was their strongest shared trait. Stiles grinned.

"So I was thinking we should have Derek over to dinner. Maybe, like, once a week or so? Make it a thing. We can fill him up with lots of food--the most monstrous thing about werewolves is their stomachs, no lie--and you can pump him for info."

Win-win! He was a genius; no denying it. Then the gleam in Dad's eyes turned speculative and Stiles shifted under the sharpening gaze. He knew that look. Fuck.

Dad's voice was smooth. "Or I could ask Scott any questions I have. Since I've known Scott since the two of you were juvenile whirlwinds together."

"Uh, well, I guess that would work, too? Except Scott doesn't know nearly as much as Derek, what with Derek being a born werewolf and all and growing up in a werewolf family."

"And apparently my old friend Alan Deaton has a great deal of knowledge of the supernatural."

"Yes? Though getting info out of the good doc always seemed to me more like being set a puzzle to solve without having all the pieces. But maybe, as a friend and the sheriff, you'd have more luck?"

Dad smiled. "Or I could ask Mr. Hale to come to my office and fill me in on a few things I'd find useful."

"Right? You could do that." He squirmed in his chair before forcing himself to be still. "I just thought, you know, he might be more forthcoming in more, uh, relaxed surroundings? Where no one might accidentally overhear?"

"Uh-huh." Dad finally switched his too perceptive attention back to his spaghetti. "Good thinking. Go ahead and see if he's amenable. I take it werewolves like fake tofu meat?" He speared a meatball with vicious force and held it up. "Or will we be forced to sacrifice one night a week to the real thing?"

Stiles pointed an accusing finger. "You're an evil conniver."

"Takes one to know one, son."

\-----

The first day of school--of his _last year_!--was its usual semi-organized chaos. Going into second period Econ, he saw Scott already seated at a desk near the window. Stiles worried at a hangnail for a moment, then squared his shoulders and went directly to Scott's desk. Scott looked up with a spontaneous smile at seeing him that made Stiles' heart thump hard, then Scott dialed it back with a cautious look, his body tensing, and the pain became a stab. Stiles managed a smile he hoped was pain-free.

"Hey. I was wondering if we could talk? Maybe at lunch?"

"Sure. Meet in the cafeteria?"

Stiles nodded and continued to a desk a row over and a couple back.

It felt weird to spot Scott and his...group at a table in the cafeteria and, instead of veering to the other side of the room, going straight to them instead. Everyone looked up as he stopped. Lydia, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, looked at him with pursed lips and a tilted head. Allison gave him a big, dimpled smile. Isaac's eyes twitched between him and Scott. Danny and Ethan looked up with matching curious looks, while Aiden, lounging beside Lydia, glanced up, then looked back to his food, exuding disinterest.

Scott stood up, grabbing his sandwich and juice. "Hey. Wanna head outside?"

Away from werewolf hearing, he meant. Stiles smiled crookedly. "Sure." He waved at the table, but turned away before seeing if anybody responded.

"That wasn't awkward at all," he said as he and Scott sat opposite each other at one of the picnic tables.

Scott chuckled, then lifted his sandwich, all ease and patience.

Stiles took a deep breath and blew it out. "Okay, I just wanted to tell you that my dad knows now. About everything. He even finally understands what that thing with Jackson and the restraining order was about."

Scott grimaced; he'd hated that entire incident as much as Stiles had. "So, that's good. Right? You finally decided he'd be better off knowing?"

Stiles shrugged. "Not so much planned as a thing that just happened. He saw something, and there was no going back from that."

Scott nodded, eyes warm with understanding. "Do you want me to talk to him? Fill him in on our enhanced senses, show him the shift, stuff like that?"

"Nah, thanks, we've got that covered."

Scott's brows shot up.

Stiles replayed his words in his head and silently cursed. "Uh, Derek, I mean. Derek is--" he waggled his hand "--answering Dad's questions on all that kind of thing, and telling him werewolf history and stuff."

"Oh. That's...good."

They both tackled their sandwiches. Stiles finally broke the uneasy silence. "Though apparently Dad and Deaton are old friends. I had no idea! I thought they just knew each other from a few consults with the Sheriff's department over the 'animal attacks' and all that."

Scott chewed his bite in thoughtful silence, then swallowed noisily. "Dude, you don't think--? I mean, they're about the same age, right? And I think Deaton's lived here a long time. Maybe they went to school together."

Stiles froze, eyes locked with Scott's, then they both broke down laughing. "I can't even imagine it!" But he knew neither he nor Scott was having any trouble imagining Dad and Deaton the same way he was. He and Scott were on the same page, like they'd always been.

The ache of that recognition sobered him, and Scott stopped laughing immediately after him.

He looked straight into Scott's eyes. "I've missed you. You have no idea. I know it doesn't mean anything after all this time, but giving up our friendship was probably the hardest thing I've ever done. And I hated leaving you to go back to my old life when you never could."

"Yeah, me, too. There's been this Stiles-shaped hole--" Scott sniffed, and continued with forced steadiness. "But I understood why you did it. The others all missed you, too, you know? Well, not Ethan and Aiden because they never really knew you, but the rest of them."

He nodded. "I'm glad everybody looks okay."

Scott brightened. "Oh, yeah, everyone's great! Danny knows now, too, so he's in the pack."

They crumpled their garbage and dumped it as they headed for the door. "So," Stiles said, "I just wanted to let you know you can go to my dad any time if there's a problem or you think he should know something's going down. He knows about the Argents, too, and the whole hunter thing."

"Okay." Scott nodded as they paused on the steps before going inside. "Maybe you and I could get together sometime? Hang out like we used to? Or you could join us for a movie night or something?"

Warmth rose in him, the way Scott had always made him feel: warm and wanted. "Yeah, dude, that'd be great. It's just, this new friend I made, Savvy, she doesn't know anything. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Oh, yeah, no problem."

Scott smiled with easy confidence, though Stiles doubted Scott hung out with anybody these days who didn't know, had any real idea of what a balancing act it was. Especially now Danny was in the pack. Possibly his douchebag father had no inkling, but Scott spent as little time as possible with him, unless things had changed drastically in the last year, so that hardly counted.

He smiled back, masking his uneasiness. "Great! Catch me on Skype?" He was about to head inside when Scott put a hand on his arm, so he waited.

"So, um, you see Derek a lot?"

He fought down the sudden tensing of his shoulders and made his voice casual. "Sometimes, yeah. You?"

Scott looked surprised. "Me? No. Isaac tries to see him sometimes, but Derek's apparently as much of a loner as ever." He sounded exasperated, but his voice turned tentative again. "I haven't seen Cora around?"

Stiles wasn't sure he liked being used as a conduit of information already, but he supposed Scott had a right to know. Sort of. He was the werewolf king of the area, in a way, hilarious as that would've sounded a year ago.

"Nope. She didn't come back." That was all Scott needed to know. The rest was Derek's business.

They parted inside the doors with a mutual grin. Scott bounded up the stairs and Stiles went to his locker. Savvy fell into step with him as they headed into English.

"Hi, there you are. Missed you at lunch. Was that the captain of the lacrosse team I saw you with? What's his name, McCall?"

"Scott, yeah. He and I were friends, like, for years. Just touching base again."

They chose desks next to each other without even thinking about it.

"Oh, right, you used to play lacrosse, didn't you?"

Sometimes he forgot she'd only moved to town last year. She'd never seen him play, or knew who his old friends were.

He grinned. "Fun game, if you don't mind constant bruises. I wasn't that great at it, though. Switching to running was a good move."

He watched the teacher as she came into the room, trying to ignore the fizz of uneasiness in his gut as the shadow world of lies and secrets reached tendrils toward him again.

\-----

He knew he couldn't really sneak up on a werewolf, with their noses and ears always dialed up to ten, but he appreciated Derek not turning his head to acknowledge him until Stiles actually fell into step with him on the jogging path. Also the way Derek subtly powered down to match Stiles' speed, which he did notice, thank you, but Derek never made a show of; well, unless he felt like being a jerk on any given day.

Their greeting being a quick mesh of their eyes, he went straight to the point. "I told Scott he could go to Dad any time he needed to now." He could feel Derek's attention. "Also, Scott asked about Cora. All I said was she didn't come back to town."

He flexed his arms, trying to shake off anxiety, until Derek gave a brief nod and he relaxed. He wanted Derek to know upfront, categorically, that he wasn't going to be feeding Scott information about Derek or anything Derek said just because Stiles was back in contact with Scott.

"Things have changed. I mean, I know it was inevitable. It felt good, sitting down and talking with Scott again; natural. But at the same time, we've both become different people. I have no idea what they've been through this past year any more than they know anything about my life." He gave a short, harsh laugh. "Hell, they've probably written me off as living a boring, nothing life. You know what's funny?"

Derek lifted an eyebrow in his direction.

"You know more about what's gone on in my life this past year than anyone else. Even Savvy only knows one side."

"Only because you insist on sharing crap with me and are impossible to shut up."

"Exactly! But with your super speed, you could escape from me any time. You obviously just enjoy your Stiles-time, dude, admit it!"

Derek gave him a shit-eating grin over his shoulder as he put on a burst of speed and drew ahead.

Stiles laughed. "Hey, asshole! Dad wants you to come to dinner. What day's good for you?"

Derek slowed down even with him. "What."

"We're even forgoing the Stilinski tofufest in your honor. Dad's insistence. You get to share our grill and be grilled at the same time." He waggled his eyebrows at Derek's stink-eye. "He has questions. Have I ever mentioned where I get my unbounding curiosity and fascination with detailed research from?"

Derek shut his eyes for a moment, but looked resigned when he opened them.

"How about Sunday? There's a game on TV. You like baseball, right? It'll be a novelty for you, watching a little box with miniature people in it."

Derek gave him his grumpiest eyebrows, but also a nod, so that was okay. Stiles named a time and didn't mention its being a weekly thing; a slow approach was best when taming wild things.

Step one of getting Derek more than one person in his life he didn't have to hide himself from was a go.

\-----

Derek fell asleep on the couch after the second Sunday dinner, following a big meaty meal, long animated discussion with Dad, and a game on the TV with the nightcap of Stiles' super-duper marshmallow hot chocolate. Stiles did a silent fist-pump when he came downstairs after finishing his homework. He woke Dad, and told Derek he should stay because he and Dad were going to bed, Derek knew where the bathroom was and, by the way, there was a new toothbrush on the counter, which he might as well keep here. Then he dumped a blanket and pillow on Derek's chest as Derek blinked blearily at him, turned off the TV and lights, except the hall light, and went upstairs.

\-----

The two sides of Stiles' life bumped into each other at McDonald's, because sometimes life was a cartoon. He, Savvy, and Brett were waiting for their weekly fix of saturated fat, MSG, and Sodium Nitrate when Stiles looked up just as Scott pushed through the door. Scott froze, eyes wide. Before their talk, he would've left or they'd've pretend not to see each other. Stiles stared at him a beat, then smiled and nodded to the table in invitation. He cursed that werewolf hearing would detect his fast heartbeat, but couldn't do anything about it but take a deep breath.

"Hey, hi!" He turned to Savvy and Brett. "Guys, these are old friends of mine. That's Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Isaac." He gestured beside him. "Savvy and Brett."

"Hi, nice to meet you!" Scott gave them one of his big smiles that made it seem, just for a moment, like unicorns not only existed, but really did poop rainbows.

Savvy greeted them with the polite, cool watchfulness she always had with strangers, while Brett, undefeated county debate champion, did his usual freezing-in-the-headlights-of-ordinary-life thing. Lydia looked Savvy over briefly; studied Stiles with the intensity of a lepidopterologist pinning her latest capture to a board; then turned her considering gaze on Brett.

"You're president of the Debate Club, aren't you?" And they were off debating the ideology of debate, or some such esoteric shit.

The rest of them struggled to find something to talk about that didn't touch on werewolves; the supernatural in general or specific; archery and weapons; dead bodies; animal attacks; hunters; or Derek. Allison mentioned Scott's and Isaac's recent triumphs on the lacrosse field, which filled almost two full minutes, then Savvy mentioned Stiles' running, which lasted another minute and a half. Gymnastics came up and went down quickly; the Basque Country was mentioned because Allison spent the summer there, but no one else had any international travel stories to share, except Lydia, but she was deep in word-fencing with Brett and ignoring the rest of them. Scott mentioned his work with Deaton and Isaac jumped in with a story of a box of abandoned kittens, which lasted them a good three minutes before Savvy, smiling, mentioned her cat allergy.

Then their food was ready and they all dived onto it like none of them had had more than a protein shake for a week.

 _at least I don't think I have to worry about the two sides of my life wanting to hang out together. like, ever_ , he texted Derek before bed.

Derek sent him a laughing emoticon, the bastard. Stiles grinned and sent him an ASCII finger. It was purely accidental that it might be mistaken for a dick.

\-----

After the third Sunday dinner, Derek was still on the couch on Monday morning and joined them for breakfast before the three of them headed out their separate ways.

\-----

Now he was no longer expending effort not to notice Scott, he noticed him all the time. The first thing that became apparent was that Scott was rarely alone. He hadn't been alone that much before, but that was when he'd had Stiles. Then Allison entered Scott's life and slowly the rest accrued. Scott had mentioned a "Stiles-shaped hole," but Stiles couldn't see much room for a hole or an extra person these days. If it wasn't Allison at Scott's side, it was Isaac, or, more often than not, both of them. Danny and Ethan were around a fair bit, too. Where Allison went, Lydia was often also present, and where Lydia was, so usually was Aiden.

He and Scott Skyped, and fell into their old easy ways, except they no longer knew all that much about what was happening in each other's lives, so they didn't always find much to talk about. He didn't want to mention Savvy or what they did together, not least because it was all just ordinary stuff and not really interesting to anybody else. He avoided all mention of Derek and ducked Scott's occasional attempts to ask a question about him. He noticed Scott didn't mention a lot about what he and the others did, either. His pack.

He had no grasp of how Scott and the alpha twins negotiated their shared status, but it seemed clear they were a pack and its heart and leader was Scott.

He put the past and regrets behind him and went on with his life. Although he no longer had any reason to avoid the school library, he found he preferred to go on using the town library. Partly because of still having his job there, his shifts now scheduled for after school, and partly because he'd miss his meetings with Derek, which were no longer random so much as deliberate.

"We even have our own bench." He knocked his knee against Derek's as they sat on the said bench in the shadowed corner of the courtyard, which was a lot chillier in early October than it'd been in August. "Maybe we should move to a warmer one? Though then it wouldn't be ours. Oh, the dilemma. What to do, what to do."

He shuffled over close enough to feel Derek's warmth. Derek raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"You're warmer than I am, dude. Don't be stingy."

Derek snorted, but stayed where he was. His iron-hard thigh muscles relaxed against Stiles' leg. Derek always tensed when Stiles touched him, then huffed in complaint, but didn't move and slowly lost the tight defensiveness: Stiles had noticed the pattern. He'd also noticed Derek relaxed more quickly these days, and his protests had become rote.

Which was nice because, while Stiles had started out making a point of crowding Derek because he figured Derek must be touch-starved in his hermit existence, he'd come to want the closeness for himself as much as for Derek.

He chewed his lip for a moment, then gritted his teeth and took the leap. "Dad thinks I have a crush on you."

Derek squinted at him, then his eyes flicked toward the door across the courtyard like he was about to flee. If Stiles were a werewolf, he knew he'd be hearing Derek's heart speeded up.

"He's wrong, obviously," he said, and felt Derek move cautiously down to DEFCON 2. Stiles gave him a grin. "I know what crushing feels like. This is more...being in like with you."

He turned to fully face Derek, who was eyeing him like he would a bigger, meaner predator. Stiles softened his grin to a smile. "The thing is, I find you bizarrely comfortable to be around. I can't imagine why because you're not a comfortable person. You're more like a prickly-pear person. A porcupine wolf. Something pointy and uneasy, entirely apart from the fangs and claws. But I've gotten used to hearing your growly voice and reading your laughably pithy texts and seeing your absurdly gorgeous face, even all the grumpy versions, and I really want to kiss it. Your face, I mean. With the stubble and the mouth and the eyes and whatnot."

Derek didn't look trapped or desperate or horrified. The corners of his eyes and mouth were pulled down as though weighted. His voice was soft. "Stiles--"

"Did you know my birthday's coming up?"

Derek blinked. "What? No. Look--"

"My eighteenth. Though I don't need to be eighteen to kiss you. Kissing's not illegal. We wouldn't even need to lie to Dad."

 _Now_ Derek shot him an appalled look. Stiles laughed.

"Trust me, Dad doesn't actually want to know who I'm kissing. We've come perilously close to having that too-revelatory conversation more than once thanks to how I react in nervous situations. He's always said I can do anything I choose as long as it's legal and he wouldn't try to stop me--though that's never meant he won't air his opinion, of course. Fortunately, he almost likes you these days. Or at least he's getting used to your stiff formal manners with him and the way they contrast with your meltdowns when I get under your skin. His sense of humor is even more questionable than mine, you know."

He traced his fingers over the back of Derek's fisted hand where it was resting on his thigh.

"And I'll be legal to have sex with anyone I choose in every jurisdiction in the country in precisely forty-six days. We can keep it to just kissing until then. Because I want to kiss you, Derek, and I don't think you really want to stop me because I think you kind of like me, too."

He wrapped his hand fully around Derek's fist, his fingers long enough to grip it securely, absorbing the faint tremor in Derek's tense muscles through his skin.

He leaned closer. "You won't be my first, you know, if you're worried about that. Not my second or even my third, for that matter. I'm not the same as I was a year ago and you're nothing like you were a year ago, either, and neither of us are living the same lives we were then. Life happens; people change. Maybe in a year, we'll still be together; or maybe not.

"But here, right now, I like you and I think you like me and I can't think of one good reason not to explore where that might take us." He waited a beat, but Derek just met his eyes without speaking. "So, I'm going to kiss you now. Okay? And, hey, cheer up: we might discover we hate it and don't ever want to do it again."

Derek grimaced. "I don't think that's going to be the problem." His mutter was just discernible.

Stiles laughed, bright and sure, and leaned into Derek. Derek finally unfroze and leaned forward, too, and their lips met, fumbling till they got the angle right, awkward as all first times were: until it wasn't awkward at all. Stiles fisted his free hand in the leather shoulder of Derek's jacket and felt Derek's arm circle his back, a firm anchor.

Under his left hand, Derek's clenched fist relaxed as they kissed, unfurling like a starfish until it lay flat against his leg. Stiles pressed his own flattened hand warmly against it as Derek's mouth opened and Stiles slid his tongue inside to curl against Derek's. He reveled in the sensation for an indeterminate time before breaking away from Derek's tongue to explore the contours of Derek's teeth and flick at the smooth roof of his mouth before finding Derek's tongue again. Derek's hand turned over under his and their fingers wove together into a tight, mutual grip.

When they pulled back from each other at last, Stiles managed a shaky laugh. "You're right, that's not the problem."

Derek huffed a laugh, then closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Stiles'. Stiles spared a moment to worry about his breath and werewolf sense of smell and taste, then dismissed it as Derek's problem.

"Wanna know a secret?"

Derek's voice was low but decisive. "No."

"Guess how much older Dad was than my mom."

He could feel the brush of Derek's eyelashes against his cheeks as Derek pulled back to look at him. Stiles waggled his eyebrows at him.

"You're kidding."

"Nope." He grinned with satisfaction.

Derek laughed, short and sharp as a dog's startled yip, and they walked inside together, their shoulders brushing.

\-----

"So, Dad, in the interests of not keeping secrets from you, it might be that Derek and I are, uh, exploring a new phase of our relation--"

Dad held up a hand and stared at him over his reading glasses. "Is this something I'm going to want to think about when I'm lying in bed tonight trying to get to sleep?"

"Uh, that would probably be a no."

Dad's eyes narrowed. "Are you doing anything I wouldn't approve of?"

"No. Absolutely not. I mean, you don't think of Derek as a possible serial killer anymore, right? Decent guy, under the stubble and black leather. Bit of a douche at times, but who isn't. Perfect table manners. What would Sunday nights be without you getting to interrogate him for hours over illicit meat products before the two of you nod off together in front of the TV?"

Dad stared at him while parsing the words, then adjusted his glasses and lifted the newspaper. "Good, then. Thanks for keeping me in the loop, son."

"No problem." Stiles sketched a sloppy salute and went up to his room grinning.

\-----

Savvy's glare was epic even on the crappy Skype connection. "I'm not telling you when your surprise party's going to be. What the hell, Stiles!"

"I'm just saying, if you _happened_ to be planning a surprise party for my birthday--my _eighteenth_ birthday--it might be an idea to move it a day later. Or a day earlier. Or whenever you like! Because, you know, I might have a date on my birthday itself."

Savvy leaned toward the screen until she looked disturbingly like Mr. Magoo. "You _might_ have a date?"

He threw up his hands. "I have a date! I definitely have a date! An inside date. Or, um, an indoor date, at least. A date that will take place indoors, behind closed and locked doors. With no one else there. Except my date. And me. A very important date, which I don't intend to miss."

She leaned back and crossed her arms. "You have a date."

"Yes! Why is it so hard to believe I have a date?"

"Maybe because I haven't seen you with anybody that looked remotely like date material?" A disturbed look flashed across her face.

"What? What is that look?"

"Oh, wow. You haven't _bought_ yourself a date as a birthday present, have you?"

His mouth opened and shut several times as she watched him intently, before he managed to gasp. "What? I-- No! For crap's sake, Savvy! I didn't have to buy myself a date! I've been seeing him for weeks. Well, I've known him a couple of years, been seeing him for months. And we've been _dating_ for weeks."

She looked relieved, then confused. "Do I know this guy? It's not Scott, is it? Or, what was the other one called, Isaac?"

"Eww, not Scott. I told you, he was like a brother to me. And not Isaac. Definitely not my type."

"I didn't think you had a type."

He was offended. "Of course I have a type. Several, in fact."

"Uh-huh. I've heard about the wondrous Lydia, but clearly it's not her. What other type do you have?"

"An older type, all right. He doesn't go to school with us."

She made a circling motion with her hand.

He sighed. "Tall, dark haired, ludicrously attractive. I mean, _ludicrously_. And surprisingly...pleasant? When he's not being a total jerk, which used to be his default when I first knew him, but now is down to only about sixty percent of his personality."

She grinned. "So, a perfect fit for you, then."

"Ha ha."

"Bro, you have a date on your eighteenth birthday with your secret hot older boyfriend! Awesome!"

She held her fist out to the screen. Stiles laughed and reached his own fist out for a virtual bump.

\-----

In retrospect, announcing with a gleeful smile, "I'm legal!" the moment Derek opened the door of his loft might've been a tactical error.

The corners of Derek's mouth, curled upwards in a smile as he opened the door, immediately reversed direction and he backed away across the room, crossed his arms, and said, "Not until after midnight you're not."

Stiles went inside, shut the heavy sliding door behind him and flipped the lock, glanced to the spiral staircase the way he did every time he came in just to make sure Peter hadn't turned up out of the blue and was lurking on it, then faced Derek.

"No, really." He shrugged out of his jacket, unwound his scarf, and pulled off the wolf beanie he only wore when visiting Derek, because Derek's constipated look every time he saw it was hilarious, to hang them on the row of hooks. "Eighteen. Today. I'm legal!"

"You're not legal until one minute after midnight of the day following your birthday."

He stared at Derek, noting the defensive stance and stubborn set to his delightfully kissable mouth, which was currently set in a thin, tight line.

"Yes, I am. Trust me, dude. I even know the exact time of my birth: On this day eighteen years ago at precisely 11.34 a.m., an awesome new Stilinski came into the world." He flung his arms out to the sides. "I've been eighteen for seven hours and counting! I'm legal everywhere!"

Derek continued his impression of an immovable rock. "You might be eighteen, but you're not _legal_ until one minute after midnight. Local time."

Stiles squinted at him. "What the hell? You're freaking out! And where are you getting this crap about midnight?"

"I worked as a bartender. Everyone comes in on their birthday, but it's not legal to serve them alcohol until--"

"Wait, wait. You worked? As a bartender? I didn't think you knew how to work."

Now Derek looked like the grumpiest immovable rock in the world. Stiles shook his head as he headed straight for Derek. His life, seriously. He should immortalize it all in a comic strip. Share the highs and lows of Life as a Stiles with the internet world.

He stopped within Derek's personal space, which wasn't saying much since Derek's idea of personal space was beyond arm's length of your typical Paul Bunyan-sized giant. Stiles had whittled it down to a few inches, though; what he secretly called the lean-in-and-kiss zone. Though that would be tricky at the moment since Derek leaned away from him and still had his big, muscled arms crossed over his chest between them.

"Stop freaking. I'm not going to mention the scary L word again, okay?" He mimed zipping his lips. "Or my chronological age, which has no relevance since emotionally speaking? We're at least twins. And I'm the older one."

He ran the tips of his fingers along Derek's rigid forearm, ruffling the dark hair in one direction, then smoothing it down in the other. He softened his voice. "Hey, come on. We're just going to have a nice dinner, right? Order giant pizzas. Talk about anything except what day it is. Cuddle on your cold, uncomfortable, black leather couch. _Kiss._ A lot. Because we've gotten good at that these past few weeks and, also, you still don't have a TV or DVD player. Hours will fly past before we know it."

He smiled his most charming smile. Derek looked alarmed, but his arms were relaxing under Stiles' stroking.

Hours would fly past...or, Plan A, he'd get Derek so preoccupied he'd forget to keep track of the time. Hopefully. Because while his birthday had the thoughtfulness to fall on a Friday for his _eighteenth_ , Dad had looked as freaked as Derek at Stiles' bouncing joy at being eighteen and _legal_ , so he'd had to promise he'd be home by two so Dad could get some sleep that night. It seemed you had to be eighteen or thereabouts to fully appreciate the glory of being eighteen at last.

He needed to stop thinking _eighteen_ in case it slipped out and set them back to square one.

Dinner was nice. They ordered deep-dish pizzas and there were candles. Derek had scattered enough pillar candles around that they could turn off the lamps and eat in the flickering light of a shadow-draped cavern that was the loft with its high ceiling and reflective wall of windows.

"This is awesome. It's like we're vacationing in the Paleolithic Era."

Before Derek could get grumpy again, Stiles leaned in and licked away a dab of meat sauce from the corner of his mouth. "I love it. Really." He whispered the words between running his tongue around the whorls of Derek's left ear. "And I'm even more in like with you now."

They were A+ kissers by now. Double Honors A+ kissers due to lots of practice. Weeks of growing frustration; mandated pauses so they could both adjust themselves inside their constricting pants until their problems...subsided; and the occasional early separation so Stiles, at least, could rush home and jerk off to dreamy hot little porn films featuring Derek in his head. They had the entire kissing part of a relationship down pat. And now all that practice was about to pay off. Just another--Stiles stole a look at his phone--three hours, six minutes, and forty-two fucking seconds to kill. They could totally do it; marathon kissing was one of their specialties. So far, their only specialty.

Then Derek produced a DVD. Stiles stared at it in astonishment. Not that anything about it looked particularly astounding; just an ordinary DVD still in its cellophane wrapper. What was confounding was the strangeness of seeing an entertainment item in Derek's loft that didn't consist of paper pages bound together, which set him flailing in dumbfounded silence.

"Happy Birthday."

He stared up at Derek, who was still holding out the DVD and looking amused at the likely transparency of Stiles' train of thought. Stiles snapped his mouth shut and grabbed the DVD.

"You got me a present!" He flipped the DVD over and turned it right-way up and stared. "Oh, my god. Duuude. You really do like me!"

Derek, who was opening the laptop Stiles had finally wheedled him into buying on the industrial-style coffee table, just shrugged, but Stiles noticed his tiny smile.

"How did you even manage to navigate a DVD store to find this one?"

Derek was rummaging in a drawer across the room. "I asked a guy behind the counter to point out good recent movies. He took me to a shelf of the latest hits, or something."

"Aww. That's so thoughtful. Then you chose this one by its cover, am I right?"

Derek sat beside him, his laptop's remote in hand, and looked cagey. Stiles grinned down at the DVD of _42: The Jackie Robinson Story_ , the cover showing Chadwick Boseman as Jackie in a Dodgers uniform. He bumped Derek's shoulder gently.

"You bought me a baseball movie. That's true like if ever anything was."

He turned Derek's face to him and held his hand against Derek's cheek, more beard than stubble these days, as they shared a leisurely kiss. Stiles pulled back as Derek nosed against his neck and they rested like that a moment.

"Thanks," he said with a soft smile when Derek sat up, and Derek smiled back, all his rough edges smoothed for the moment.

Stiles held out the DVD. "Offer a helping claw at need?"

Derek laughed and shot his claws into existence with a quick, dramatic splay of his hand. Stiles shook his head in fondness at the show-off display. Derek used a clawed index finger to carefully slit open the cellophane wrapper. Stiles tore it off fully and pulled open the case.

"Can I leave it here? I'm going to leave it here. In some prominent position where all the visitors you never have will see it and know it's mine, because it's such an anomaly in your wasteland of an entertainment center."

They settled down to watch, Stiles taking command of the remote, Derek's arm a comfortable, familiar weight over his shoulders. This evening wasn't turning out to be the hours of steamy, amazing sex he'd envisioned, but damn if he'd trade this oddball domestic contentment for even an enactment of his longest running private fantasy featuring Derek. Though there was no way he was leaving before he'd gotten the steamy sex as well! It was just okay, after all, to have this sweet, extended foreplay. Very okay indeed.

The foreplay heated up as the movie wound down. Derek was freer with his hands than he'd ever let himself be before, and that was exhilarating, as was Stiles having the freedom to touch in ways he hadn't before, to stroke, lick, squeeze; to unbutton and unzip and kiss previously forbidden dips and planes that led ever farther downward. He followed the shadowed divots of Derek's hips and breathed in his heady scent.

By the time the credits were rolling, Stiles had lost track of the time, which suited him just fine. As he closed his fingers around Derek's wrist and tugged him up off the couch, he hoped Derek had lost track, too. Derek at least didn't balk as Stiles, arm hooked around his waist, led him across the room in the flickering candlelight. The bed was more shadowed than the couch, but he could see just fine with the light from a half-moon framed in the windows supplementing the candles. The cavelike effect was cozier here, more intimate, with the shadows like drapes giving them privacy. Stiles paused by the side of the bed, made sure Derek was watching, and wriggled his hips in a quick, practiced movement that made his open pants slither down his legs to pool at his feet. Derek stared, mouth open, then grinned up at him, meeting his eyes, before taking a more leisurely look down the length of Stiles' bare legs, then back up to pause at the growing bulge at his crotch.

Stiles shivered and stood still, reveling in the moment, before reaching to pull Derek closer.

"No way you can do that trick, buddy; not with those painted-on jeans of yours."

He grabbed Derek's hands as Derek slid his thumbs into his waistband and prepared to shove them down.

"Nuh-uh-uh! My--" he caught himself before saying _birthday_ in case Derek had another ridiculous reaction to the reminder "--day, I get to unwrap my gift."

He'd envisioned himself shoving Derek's sinfully tight pants down and off in a frenzy of lust, but instead he pressed Derek back to lie on the bed, then hooked his fingers over the waistband and paused, startled, then tugged the black jeans down far enough to see that, yes, Derek really was wearing--

"Black silk boxers!" He grinned at Derek with crazed delight. "I didn't think anything could make you hotter, but you have actual _hidden porn-star assets_."

He stroked the exposed top of the boxers, feeling Derek's stomach quiver through the thin material.

"So this is the secret of how you slide those tight jeans up over your ass, huh?"

Derek's mouth tugged up into a smile over the expanse of his own body laid out like a banquet between them as their eyes met. Stiles wondered if his eyes were as dilated to almost all black in the candlelight as Derek's were, and hoped they were as warm. He swallowed and managed to turn his attention back to the soft, slithery sensation under his fingertips. Pulling Derek's jeans down another inch, he discovered the joy of teasing both of them, ramping up the anticipation as he slowly bared Derek in the flickering light.

He took his time after that to learn the feel of each new strip of exposed flesh and bone and hair. Reaching the swell of Derek's cock clearly outlined in the flimsy silk, he dipped his head to lick a stripe along it. He couldn't taste anything but the material, but he could feel the texture of the hair at Derek's groin and his head filled with the concentrated scent of _Derek_ , rich and alluring. Derek's cock and hips both jumped in response, and Stiles laughed as he pushed down on Derek's jutting hipbones and slanted him a look from under his lashes, then proceeded to tug the jeans down a few inches at a go. When he bared the bottom of the boxers, he teased them both with a slide of his fingertips up the outsides of each of Derek's thighs underneath the fabric. As though the scrape of the hair on Derek's hard thighs sensitized them, Stiles' fingers tingled and his own dick, hardening and lengthening against Derek's thigh, gave a decided jerk.

He pressed Derek into the bed after he'd coaxed him into lifting his ass to free his pants, and Derek obligingly spread himself and let Stiles keep working his way down at his own pace. He looked up from kissing and licking the long, firm muscle in Derek's left thigh, jeans now down to his knees, and caught Derek, one arm behind his head, watching him with intent eyes and a smile that looked enigmatic in the chancy light.

Stiles tilted his head. "What? What is that look?"

Derek shrugged. "I thought you'd be different."

"Yeah? Different good? Different bad?"

"More impatient. Less...controlled."

Stiles bent to press a quick kiss to each of Derek's knees, then grinned down at them. "Dudes, you're just as knobbly as everyone else's! Who'd've thought?" The discovery delighted him, but also made him feel oddly tender.

Then Derek chuckled above him, which sent him into a tailspin because Derek feeling light-hearted enough to chuckle, and because of him? He thought his face might break if he didn't stop grinning like a loon. He looked up and met Derek's crinkled eyes, smoky in the half-light, and a lump lodged in his throat.

Thumbing Derek's bare knees, holding Derek's gaze, he said, "We only get one first time together."

Derek sobered and nodded, like it meant as much to him as to Stiles, and urgency rose like a flood of heat and need that made Stiles' cock outright uncomfortable in his briefs. He flung his slow approach to the winds, dragged Derek's jeans the rest of the way off and tossed them to the floor. Derek growled and tugged on his arm just as Stiles surged up over him. He ran his fingers into Derek's thick hair and felt Derek's strong hand cupping the nape of his neck as they kissed, but the need to be skin-to-skin, no barriers between them, even flimsy silk ones, made him break away. He grabbed the waistband of Derek's shorts.

"Up, up!"

Derek's hips snapped up off the bed and Stiles dragged the boxers down his legs. He abandoned them near Derek's ankles, attention wholly on Derek's cock springing free, hard and erect with the head curving just a little to the right. Derek's big hands skinned Stiles' briefs down out of the way, then one of them closed sweetly on Stiles' dick.

 _Oh, my god, I can touch!_ He'd almost forgotten he could do that now, and elation filled him as he ran his index finger down the exposed underside of Derek's cock, thrilling at the sensation of soft skin over hard flesh and the bump of the prominent veins. Derek made a sound like a combination of a growl and a moan that made the skin on Stiles' back prickle, then he gripped Derek's cock as he wriggled fully out of his briefs. Derek kicked his own boxers off from around his ankles, and spread his thighs and pulled Stiles to lie between them, on him, in one smooth, strong motion.

Their hands tangled as they moved in synch into rutting friction, but Derek transferred his hard grip to Stiles' ass and Stiles set both his hands on Derek's wide shoulders, pressing himself up to get their cocks perfectly aligned before pressing back down with a grunt, their dicks trapped side-by-side in the mini-sauna of heat and the growing slickness of the mingled precome between their bellies. Stiles threw his head back as they thrust in unison, finding the rhythm, then it was all hard flesh moving together between the heave of their bellies, the scrape of hair on his sensitized cockhead, Derek's and his harsh breathing into each other's mouths, and the growing tang of sex and sweat as they surged to climax in the intimacy of their shadowed cave.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Derek!" He gasped for breath as he came, the pool of his warm come spreading between them.

Derek followed a few seconds later and Stiles slumped fully down onto him. Derek grunted as he climaxed, but was otherwise silent. Afterwards, though, as Stiles heaved for breath, mouth open against Derek's slick shoulder, he heard Derek murmur his name, like a sigh of air as his body relaxed beneath Stiles and Derek's arms lifted to crisscross Stiles' back, heavy but tender. Stiles lay still, breathing in their mingled scents and watching the fitful dance of candlelight against the brick wall. 

He didn't ever want to move, except he was lying fully on Derek and his cock was feeling squashed in the aftermath, so he mustered the strength to slide off to lie on his left side against Derek. Derek's arms opened to let him go, but his right arm followed his movement and cushioned Stiles' head when he settled.

"That was fricking amazing." He lifted his head to peck a kiss to the tip of Derek's nose, just because he could, then grinned as Derek blinked at him, eyes as dark as his lashes slitted under heavy lids.

He let Derek enjoy his peace and silence for almost a whole minute, the two of them lying wrapped up together still as the stars he stared up at through the loft's glass ceiling, before he poked Derek with a gentle finger in his rock-hard abs. "It was great. Right?"

Derek huffed a laugh, his arm tightening around Stiles' shoulder. "Best first time I've ever had."

Stiles shivered at the hoarseness in Derek's low voice.

Derek reached his free hand out and snagged a plastic container of wet wipes off the bedside table. He popped the lid with his thumb and offered it to Stiles. Laughter gurgled in his chest as he pulled a couple of wipes free and swiped them carefully over Derek's belly and quiescent cock and balls.

"This is so romantic, man, I can't even." He grinned at Derek, who smiled back at him, sleepy and rumpled and so fucking _real_ that Stiles had to pause to run a finger down the side of his face.

Derek's content look deepened and something flipped in Stiles' gut as he recognized the trust for what it was, and what it meant with Derek's history. Blinking his own eyes, he dumped the first two wipes and grabbed two more to clean himself up. When he took the container from Derek to snap the lid closed and toss it back onto the table, he noticed the open package of condoms also there, lurking in shadow, and thought with his own growing contentment of Derek's preparing for this night just as Stiles had; they just hadn't gotten far enough to need them yet. But they would.

Fuck, yeah, they would. Though possibly not tonight; he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Less than an hour till he had to go, for Dad's sake. That was okay, though, because a string of tomorrows stretched out like a white ribbon road in front of them.

He settled down as Derek snagged the comforter, folded across the bottom of the bed, and pulled it up over them. "Don't let me fall asleep," he said, and felt Derek nod.

He wondered if he should set his phone alarm, just in case, but decided, no, Derek wouldn't let him down no matter how much Derek might like to snooze after sex--which was one of the things about Derek he still had no clue about, but knew with quiet contentment would soon be familiar. He settled his head beside Derek's on the pillow and tangled his legs with Derek's under the duvet. Their intertwined hands rested on Derek's chest; Stiles watched their slow, smooth rise and fall in concert with Derek's breathing. The silence was enveloping, with an eerie preternatural quality. Not even a hint of traffic noise penetrated up here, with the loft set away from any busy street, and there weren't any neighbors, just an empty work area below.

A few minutes later, Derek lifted his head and stared at him with raised eyebrows.

Stiles blinked. "What?"

"Are you actually humming _When I'm 64_?" Derek's voice was a cocktail of incredulity and amusement.

Stiles squinted at him. "Maybe."

Derek snorted and lay back down, his laugh vibrating through their twined hands.

Stiles smiled. "So, what d'you think? Will we still like each other when we're old?"

 _Or will this all just be a memory hazed in time?_ His throat tightened.

Derek's mouth lifted at one corner and he flicked his eyes to the sky stretched over them like a canopy. "Sometimes I wonder what your voice'll be like as you get older. Whether it'll become a gravelly rasp, like Dylan's, or smooth and velvety as old bourbon."

Time seemed to hang in space for a moment as Stiles' mouth fell open. His first attempt to speak was a croak, and he had to clear his throat. "You think about my voice?"

Derek's voice was a teasing growl. "I jerk off to your voice in my head."

Stiles closed his eyes, giddiness rising like a tide inside him as his cock twitched against Derek's thigh.

He opened his eyes and leaned close to murmur against Derek's flushed cheek. "Sometimes I get off on picturing how hot you'll be when the first gray appears here--" he laid his free hand against the softness of Derek's short, dark beard "--and here--" he stroked his forefinger down Derek's sideburn "--and especially _here_ \--" he feathered the hair at Derek's temple.

Their mouths met with urgency and he wasn't sure if he moved first, or Derek did, or if they moved together, but he did know it didn't matter, not in the least, because their destination was the same and they both knew it.

When he pulled back, breathless and alight, Stiles said, "Guess we have no choice then. Have to stick around to see what we turn out to be, and if we're still in like with each other, a few years down the road."

"Wherever the road takes us." Derek licked his lips, which glinted bright and promising as his eyes.

"Whatever we become," Stiles agreed, and it felt like a pinky swear.


End file.
